A Mile in My Shoes
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: After a major fight about his eating habits, Dean agrees to start eating like Sam does. But only for six weeks, and only if Sam switches over to Dean's usual diet. At the end of the month, changes are more obvious in Sam than Dean, and Dean is liking it a whole lot more than he should. WARNING: Contains Wincest, weight gain, stuffing, feeding, belly worship, and chubby!Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Don't you love it when you set out to write a one-shot and it metastasizes into a full-blown novel?**

 **YEAH ME NEITHER.**

* * *

In retrospect, it probably hadn't been the pie that'd set Sam off. Not the pie alone, at least. It'd been just kind of a crappy day in general, one thing after another, and while that definitely wasn't anything new for the two of them, it still sucked. Even Sam wasn't anywhere near bitchy enough to completely lose his shit over something as small as one piece of pie. But it definitely hadn't helped.

They were doing a hunt on the Eastern seaboard, an area neither of them liked all that much. It was too wet, too cold, too woodsy. And too old. Dean had come to think of the whole region as just one big graveyard, full of ghosts dating all the way back to the 1600s (and way earlier, if you counted the rare Native American spirit). The living people around here were intruders, basically. No wonder they had so many problems with the dead. Never mind that it wasn't actually a ghost they were after this time, despite all the evidence having pointed to it.

It was raining. It was always freaking raining here, in fall, in rural Massachusetts, right next to the ocean. It'd been raining since they'd got here, a whole week ago, which meant that every patch of ground that wasn't paved over was roughly the consistency of a cheesecake that'd been left out on the counter all night. That included the four-hundred-year-old (give or take) cemetery where they'd spent most of the previous evening, and made salting and burning human remains a total pain in the ass.

So they'd had to tarp up the bones of a teenage suicide from two centuries ago and hump them back to their motel so they could take care of things in the bathtub and completely ruin the preformed fiberglass in the process. After Sam had slipped and fallen into the muddy pit of despair that the open grave had turned into. It'd kinda been his own damn fault; he'd tried to jog around it and he knew he didn't corner well, even when the whole world wasn't an inch underwater. He hadn't gotten hurt, on account of all the mud, but he did wind up soaking wet and filthy. Hair, clothes, skin, everything. He couldn't take a shower because of the grisly mess they'd made in the tub, so he'd had to settle for changing and sponging himself off as best he could in the sink. It hadn't done much good.

Then, on top of that, it turned out the house they'd been trying to purify was still haunted, so all the shit they'd been through had been for nothing, and Sam had gotten the worst of it.

It went without saying that neither of them had been in a great mood even before all of this had gone down. They were four months out of the breakup, and they were both still smarting. Dean had planned to be nice to Sam when they went for breakfast, but he was dead-set on picking a fight over the definition of the word "poltergeist," so...it was out of Dean's hands.

"Technically speaking, it's not even a ghost." Sam testily stirred his muesli. Dean had never heard of it before he'd ordered it, but it just looked like raisin bran to him. He'd tried to get Sam to get something more substantial, not to mention hotter, after his freezing-cold mud bath, but he'd dug his heels in.

"Translates to 'noisy ghost.'" Dean speared a sausage link.

"Yeah, but _technically_ , it's, like a teenage girl. Involuntary telekinesis brought on by emotional turmoil." Dean resisted the urge to point out that Sam would know, when it came to that. "C'mon. They talked about this in the movie."

"Pretty much the only thing I took away from that movie was the creepy dwarf lady," Dean replied, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a long pull from it.

"It's 'little person,' Dean."

Dean ignored him, much like he had when Sam had raised a stink over him saying "Siamese twins." Being PC while he was alone with his brother was not a major concern for him. "Surprised _you_ noticed anything besides the clown puppet. Or doll, or whatever it was."

Sam's fingers tightened on the spoon.

"Not eating much of that," Dean observed, nodding to his bowl.

"Milk's cold," Sam responded tightly.

"Well, no shit." Dean exaggeratedly raised both eyebrows, then reached for the ketchup. It was on Sam's side of the table, and he didn't miss the muscle in his jaw that started jumping when he put his hand over there. "I tried to tell you, didn't I? But you wouldn't listen." He drizzled ketchup over his hashbrowns, the half-empty bottle making a loud squelching noise, then set it aside and scooped up a heaping forkful. "Bet you wish you had some of this."

Sam's nose wrinkled slightly, the precursor to Bitchface #17. There were a lot more now than there'd been, say, ten years ago, so Dean had taken to numbering them.

That was probably a very clear indication that they spent way too much time together, especially for a couple of exes. But, hey, what was he supposed to do?

"I can see the grease dripping off it from here," Sam stated.

"My point exactly." Dean shoved the fork into his mouth, eyes involuntarily shutting in bliss. God _damn_ , these were good hashbrowns: crispy, salty, piping hot. It was a pleasant surprise after a truly awful night. They were at their usual sort of diner, and the food these places served was rarely of this quality. He might've moaned a little.

Sam coughed once to clear his throat. "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?"

 _Ouch_. There were a lot of equally-hurtful things that Dean could have said back to Sam, but he went with "Sorry." He spoke through a full mouth, shoving the soggy mess of ketchup and half-chewed hashbrowns into one cheek with his tongue. "Forgot you're literally friggin' twelve."

"You mean figuratively."

Dean swallowed and fixed his younger brother with a dead-on glare. "Eat me, Sam."

That definitely needled him. Sam leaned forward and opened his mouth to reply, making that obnoxious little popping noise that he seemed to think made him sound smarter or something. Dean braced himself for whatever witty comeback he'd cooked up. He was spared, though, by the arrival of their waitress. Sam shut his trap and flopped back against the red Naugahyde of the booth, looking just as irritated as he had since about four p.m. yesterday. When they'd realized they were going to have to dig.

"How're we doing over here? Can I get you boys anything else, or are you ready for the check?" their waitress asked with a bright smile. Her bottle-blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail so tight it looked painful, showing off mousy roots, and she was way too goddamn perky for just after seven in the morning, even taking into account the fact that she was probably around nineteen and had just started her shift. Her nametag read _Krystal_. If it was her real name, Dean wasn't sure if her parents had been stupid, cruel, or both.

He liked her anyway. Mostly because she seemed to annoy the hell out of Sam.

Speaking of Sam, he was opening his mouth again, and Dean knew he was going to tell Krystal they were ready to go. He jumped in before he could: "Yeah, actually. Could you tell me what time you guys start serving pie?"

He flicked the laminated advert that'd been set up behind the salt and pepper shakers. In slightly off-center text, it proclaimed this specific diner to have the best pie in the county. Dean was skeptical, but the picture looked good. He also ignored Sam's incredulously-raised eyebrows. One of them was still crusted through with mud.

Krystal grinned widely. "You're in luck; we're actually just taking today's batch out of the oven right now. You want apple or cherry?"

"Ooh, well, those both sound good," Dean commented, sitting back in his seat. It took about two seconds for him to concede to himself that he'd had a rough night and could use a reward. "Hell, I'm not even gonna try to choose." He glanced up at Krystal, who already had her pen and little pad at the ready. "How 'bout you bring me one of each?"

That triggered a loud snort from Sam. Dean ignored him; Krystal's eyes flicked towards him, but otherwise, she did the same.

"Can do!" She finished scribbling, put pen and pad back in her apron, and headed for the kitchen. Dean waited until she was gone to look at Sam.

"Got something you wanna say to me, Samantha?" he asked, laying his drawl on a little thicker than usual, which he knew Sam hated. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that, despite the two of them practically having grown up in each other's pockets, they'd somehow wound up with different accents. Sam had stated on more than one occasion, even while they were still together, that he thought Dean's was "contrived." Dean was pretty sure Sam's was.

"Yeah, actually." Sam shifted, then picked up his mug of coffee, which was really the only part of his breakfast he'd touched. Probably because it was hot. "You're gonna die of a heart attack before you're forty."

"Why's that?" Dean arched an eyebrow.

"Well, you ordered, uh, _two_ breakfasts." Sam gestured to the mostly-empty plates on Dean's side of the table, and Dean looked down at them. "Bacon and eggs, and sausage and hashbrowns. One had a side of toast, one had a side of pancakes, and you drowned both of them in butter." Dean shrugged; all of that was true. "You asked for extra bacon, plus you had the waitress bring you another plate of pancakes." Sam eyed him over the rim of his coffee cup. "And now you're gonna have pie. Two whole slices."

Dean shrugged again, a little defensively this time. "Gimme a break. I burned a lotta calories last night."

"Right," Sam said, nodding. "So you're replacing them with empty ones. Smart." He pointed to one of Dean's plates, the one that'd held the bacon and eggs. All that was left were smears of ketchup and a yellow mixture of yolk and grease. " _That_ is what the inside of your arteries looks like."

"Are you calling me fat?" Dean demanded, gesturing to himself with one hand. "You're calling me fat, aren't you?" He was suddenly aware of just how full he was, stomach bloated and pressing almost painfully against the waistband of his jeans. It would've been a relief to at least pop his button, maybe even unzip his fly, but he was sure that Sam would notice if he did.

The pie might've been a bad idea. He'd be damned (again) before he'd admit that, though.

"No," Sam replied. "I'm calling you unhealthy." He snorted again, shaking his head. "Pie for breakfast."

"Y'know, when it comes to health, exercise is actually way more important than diet," Dean pointed out. Sam seemed surprised, but he shouldn't've been. This was a common argument for the two of them. It wasn't that much of a leap for Dean to start doing his own background research. "And I get plenty of exercise."

"Not regular exercise, though," Sam was quick to mention. Apparently Dean hadn't tripped him up like he'd wanted to. "And not nearly as much as me. I jog every day. I lift weights in our gym - yes, Dean, we've got a gym." His surprise must've showed on his face. "Fifth level, over by the main armory. We can go weeks between hunts, though, which means you spend weeks sitting on your ass."

"Right," Dean said. "'Cause that's what I'm doing while you're off prancing around the forest like giant fucking Bambi every morning. Sitting on my ass. Not cleaning the bathrooms, not taking care of the guns, not picking up groceries, not doing the cooking - "

"Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Sam interrupted, and Dean had to wrestle with the first stirrings of real anger. "Maybe we should switch off. I'd kinda like to eat something green every once in a while."

"You know what..." Resting his back against the booth, Dean threw up his hands. "It ain't my fault you hate everything delicious. Like pie." He dropped his hands and squinted across the table at Sam. "What the hell've you got against pie, man? Seriously."

"Nothing." Sam set his coffee down, hard enough to make some slosh out onto the table even though the mug was less than half full. "It's not about the pie. It's about your diet in general - and your lifestyle. You've got no self-control whatsoever."

"Oh. I don't, huh?" That actually stung, partially because it was so damn familiar, but Dean did his best to hide it. "For your information, I've got loads of self-control. You can bet that, if I actually wanted to eat like a rabbit and spend six hours a day making myself abso-freaking-lutely miserable, I'd be doing it. No sweat."

"Sure you would," Sam agreed, nodding just a little too hard and fast. "You just keep telling yourself that. And keeping an eye out for pain in your left arm or your jaw, tightness in your chest, shortness of breath...all that good stuff." He finally scooped up a spoonful of muesli, which was probably more like mush-li by this point, and shoved it into his mouth. He made way too big a point of fully chewing and swallowing before he spoke. "And I will brush up on my CPR."

Dean folded his hands on the table in front of him and just stared at Sam for a while, pushing his tongue into one cheek again. Sam kept eating, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. Eventually, Dean stated, "You don't think I could do it."

"Nope," Sam agreed shortly.

"How 'bout if I said you couldn't do what I do?" Dean asked, and Sam snorted once again. Maybe he wasn't doing it on purpose; maybe he was just getting a cold after wallowing in freezing graveyard mud.

"Right," he said. "Gorging on junk food and wasting half the day zoning out to Styx. Sounds real hard, Dean."

"Please," Dean almost snapped. "You go one day without your kale fix or your cardio, and you're gonna have a breakdown. You're like some sort of - of pain addict!"

"Better than being prediabetic," Sam answered in what was nearly a mumble. Dean leaned forward, his aggression driving him more than conscious thought, and Sam leaned back, shaking his head. "Fine. Fine. You wanna do this? We'll do this." He spread his hands towards Dean's empty plates. "I'll eat and act like you, and vice-versa. For a week."

"A week?" Dean barked out an incredulous laugh. "Oh, hell, no. You ain't getting off that easy. We do this, we do it right." Leaning forward again, he folded one arm under his chest and used the other to stab at the laminate tabletop with an index finger. "A month, at least. No - six weeks. And if you pussy out early, which, trust me, is definitely gonna happen, I get to shave your head."

For a second, Sam looked like he was about to protest. He raised a protective hand halfway to his long hair, which, to be blunt, was not in great shape at the moment. It was messy from the hard night, frizzing slightly in the humidity, and still matted with mud in some places. Dean waited smugly. He knew those stakes would be too high for him.

Sam surprised him, though. "Fine. And when _you_ pussy out early, I'm taking the car to get a new paint job." He raised his eyebrows. "Bubblegum pink."

Dean blinked. High stakes indeed.

"Deal," he said, and reached a hand across the table. He could do this. He had to do this, now - for Baby, so she could keep her dignity. Sam took his hand, and Dean grimaced as they shook on it. "Fuck. Your hands are freezing."

Sam just grunted in response. Their waitress turned up again a little bit later, a plate of pie in each hand. Dean flashed the best smile he could muster at her as she set both down in front of him, having to stack a couple of his empty plates in order to make room, and resolved to give her a nice, big tip when it came time to pay the bill. She deserved it for having had to deal with Sam in his current mood.

As soon as she left again (actually, she only made it a couple of steps before she apparently realized that she could take those empty plates with her, and returned to clear off their table), Dean slid both of the small plates across the table towards Sam. Who stared down at them and their contents for a long time, then looked back up at Dean. He bounced his eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh," Sam said. "So we're starting, like...right now?"

"Yep," Dean replied, reaching over to the other side of the table in order to snag Sam's bowl. "Unless you've got a problem with that, Pigpen?" He widened his eyes innocently as he pulled the bowl over to himself.

"Of course not." As Dean gave the bowl's contents an experimental stir with the spoon that was still in there, Sam picked up his fork and stabbed one of the pie slices. The apple. The flaky crust broke apart and steam escaped into the air as the golden-brown filling oozed out on either side. Dean swallowed reflexively when he heard the soft _crunch_ of the fork tines passing through a slice of baked apple. He was kind of regretting shoving the pie at Sam now, especially since that would've been the last pie he had for six weeks. But it wasn't like he could ask for it back. Sam would interpret that as an attempt to welch.

Sam approached eating both slices of pie about the same as he did dismembering a body: eyes fixed and face set, grim but determined to get through it. Dean internally shook his head. He'd never understood how anybody - especially his blood relative - could find pie anything other than delicious. It was just about causing him physical pain to watch somebody _not_ enjoying it so much, so he turned his attention back to the muesli.

When he took a bite, it actually wasn't anywhere near as bad as he'd expected it to be. Soggy? Yeah. Full of oats and other boring grains? Definitely. But there was also a lot of dried fruit in it. Raisins and cherries and blueberries, and he thought he tasted shredded coconut, too. So not great, but not horrible. Much easier on his packed stomach than the pie would've been, too.

Sam had momentarily abandoned that pie in favor of watching Dean eat what had been his breakfast. When Dean noticed him staring, he stated, "That's just gross."

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, dredged up another spoonful. "We're brothers. We've got the same germs."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, jerk. Rise and shine."

When somebody grabbed and shook his shoulder, Dean snapped awake. The reflexes that always took over when he didn't wake up naturally (he hadn't needed an alarm in years, courtesy of his rigid internal clock) had the fingers of the hand under his pillow closing instantly around the grip of his gun, but a large hand came down heavily on his arm before he could whip it out. Dean struggled, panicked, for a couple of seconds, his heart galloping in his chest as he wondered just how the hell one of their many enemies had gotten into the bunker. Then he realized it was Sam looming over him in the semi-darkness, and went limp as anger replaced the adrenaline.

"Just what the hell d'you think you're doing?" he demanded. "I could've _shot_ you. Literally."

There wasn't quite enough light to make out the details of Sam's face, but Dean could tell he was smirking just from the way his voice sounded when he answered. "Getting you up for your morning jog."

Dean squinted up at him. "What time is it?"

"Three in the morning."

Dean groaned loudly and shoved his head under the pillow, with the gun. The metal of its barrel was cool and reassuring against his cheek. He knew his voice would come out muffled if he tried to talk like this, but he just couldn't bring himself to care all that much.

"The fuck's wrong with you?"

"You said you wanted to do this. We're doing this," Sam replied, putting both hands on Dean's bed and leaning heavily on them. The mattress sank under his weight. It was memory foam, though, so at least Dean didn't roll towards him. "Get up. You're going jogging. You can borrow some of my sweats."

"And I gotta go at the freaking witching hour _why_ , exactly?" Dean rolled over to glare up at his younger brother when Sam lifted the pillow off his head. "What the hell're you doing up anyway, Mr. 'Eight o'clock's too damn early'?"

"Because when I go jogging, I get up earlier than I usually do, so the same's gonna go for you," Sam replied. "And because I wouldn't miss this for the world." When he yanked the covers back, Dean finally gave up and scrambled out of bed. No way was he calling it quits this early in the game. Or ever.

 _"Fine,"_ he ground out. "I'm going." They'd gotten in at close to midnight last night and Dean didn't really believe Sam went through with his routine even on the mornings after a hunt, but this'd pretty much been a toughness contest from the very beginning and he was dead-set on a victory. He could use one, after the breakup. "What's your usual route?"

"You can borrow my phone, too. It'll tell you," Sam responded, turning and leading the way out of Dean's room. The lights of the hallway let Dean see that it looked like Sam had just crawled out of bed, too (messy hair, old T-shirt paired with sweatpants), which made him feel at least a little bit better. "And when you get back, you can have breakfast. Whole-wheat toast, scrambled egg whites, protein smoothie."

"And I can't eat before...why?" Dean asked.

"If you do, you'll regret it. Trust me," Sam said smugly. Dean didn't give him the satisfaction of asking just what the hell he meant by that.

They reached Sam's room. He ducked inside for a second, then returned with a folded pair of workout sweats. Dark blue; Dean had seen him wearing them before. His phone was sitting on top, along with his running shoes.

"I'm not wearing those," Dean declared, shaking his head as Sam handed the whole bundle to him. Sam shrugged.

"Okay," he agreed. "You can wear your boots instead. I just hope you don't like having toenails. Or skin on your feet."

Dean eyed the shoes, with their mesh and their logo and their springy foam treads, and turned away, swearing under his breath. He was about to return to his room in order to change when Sam asked, "What're your instructions for me?"

Dean turned back around to look at him. Sam was waiting expectantly - and there might've been a little bit of anxiety there, too. He'd almost forgotten that there were two sides to this thing. A grin started creeping onto his features before he could stop it.

"Go back to bed," he said. "I'll make you breakfast, then come get you before I leave."

"Sure you don't want me cooking?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head. It wasn't like they needed to completely swap lives for this, and besides. He didn't trust Sam to do it right. "All right, then. Knock yourself out."

So Sam disappeared into his room and Dean returned to his own, then headed for the kitchen with Sam's shoes flapping on him like swim fins. He turned on all the lights there, then started making what he'd want after a hunt as grueling as the one they'd just wrapped up. First off, an entire package of bacon. He was more than capable of handling one of those by himself, and had on more than one occasion, with Sam freaking out whenever he caught him. Next up was eggs, then diced potatoes and peppers, all fried in the bacon grease. He had coffee going the whole time, and popped a couple slices of sourdough in the toaster while he was plating everything. Those, he'd smother in butter and blackberry preserves as soon as they came out.

Even though it was way before he was supposed to be up and eating, his stomach didn't appear to mind the schedule change. It'd started growling as soon as the first strips of bacon hit the pan. He was starving, everything smelled great, and it was really hard to resist the urge to sneak a bite here and there, like he would've if he'd been cooking for himself. It wasn't like Sam would ever find out. But if he was going to win this thing, he was going to do it right.

Dean laid everything out on the table at Sam's usual spot, then summoned him to it. Miraculously, he'd fallen back asleep and he had to wake him up, which was gratifying. Dean turned the phone on as Sam sank into his chair. It was unlocked, and Google Maps was already open. Five miles, all laid out on the back roads around the bunker. Well, that shouldn't be too bad.

He looked up at an incredulous laugh from Sam. "There is _no way_ you eat this every morning."

Dean shrugged. "Well, no, not _every_ morning. But usually pretty close. And it's what sounded good to me today, so." He made a finger gun at Sam, clicked his mouth, winked. "It's what you get."

Sam didn't say anything. Just glared, much as Dean had earlier. Dean watched him for a few seconds, unconcerned, then commented, "Y'know, the Bruce Willis look is _in_ this season."

"Shut up." Sam grabbed a strip of bacon, and Dean left.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was still eating when Dean limped back into the bunker about two hours later.

He almost didn't notice him at first. He was kinda preoccupied with his own hurts; it felt like somebody'd taken a sandblaster to the inside of his airways, his knees were wobbling like a toddler's, he was cramping hard enough to break a rib on his right side, and he was almost positive it would've filled a cheap plastic kiddie pool if he'd taken off the borrowed sweats and wrung them out. Despite that, his ribs ached with cold and his nose was running. And then it felt like he'd just slogged barefoot through an ankle-deep lake of lemon juice and broken glass.

It wasn't 'til he'd yanked out a chair and collapsed into it (with a low whine of pain because taking pressure off his shredded feet somehow hurt _more_ than walking on them did - yeah, didn't that just make all the sense in the fucking world) that Sam finally caught his eye. Or a Sam-shaped blur, at least. His eyes were watering pretty bad, clumping his eyelashes together and making his vision run like a gradeschooler's watercolor painting. He scrubbed a swollen, reddened hand across them and looked again.

The awareness didn't seem to be mutual. Sam had an elbow resting on the table, with the heel of that arm's hand planted firmly against his heavy brow. He was staring at nothing and grimly chewing away. There was a fork in the other hand, a chunk of potato speared on the tines. The toast was gone, along with all the bacon and most of the eggs and fried potatoes, but a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol with the cap off had appeared close at hand.

That, combined with the fact that Sam was looking distinctly green around the gills, was almost enough to make Dean ask if he was okay. Maybe even tell him that what he'd eaten already was fine and he wouldn't call it a loss if he wanted to throw in the towel on breakfast. After all, Sam wasn't used to eating this much in one sitting, and definitely not this much grease, and dean just wanted to make him miserable. Not actually, physically sick. He had a bone to pick with him right now, though.

"There's something wrong with your stupid shoes," he stated, after more or less catching his breath. He was still feeling starved for oxygen, but he couldn't take in anything deeper than shallow little gulps of air unless he wanted to make his lungs hurt even more than they already did. "They're supposed to make running easier, right? Well, it feels like my feet are just one giant blister."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the only thing that came out at first was a huge belch. He pressed the back of the hand holding the fork to his lips, closing his eyes briefly, then tried again.

"They're too big on you," Sam replied. "Occurred to me after you left. I felt really bad about it at first, but now that I can feel my arteries hardening as we speak..." He raised his eyes to look at Dean, who couldn't believe he'd been considering giving him a pass this morning.

"I'm bleedin' into your shoes," he stated.

"Throw 'em in the washer," Sam replied. "Then do an Epsom salt soak, dry your feet really well, and wrap them. It'll help with the swelling." He swallowed, then put the potato in his mouth. "You should probably get some new shoes, too. In your size. It'll hurt like hell tomorrow - real, literal Hell - but you'll be able to run on them."

Dean barked out a laugh, one that had no humor whatsoever in it.

"You're kidding," he said. "You just gotta be kidding me right now, Sam. You run _every morning?_ " That'd explain why he'd always been crawling out of bed when they still shared one.

"'Less hunting gets in the way," Sam confirmed. He swallowed again and scooped up a forkful of congealing eggs. Dean somehow resisted the urge to tell him that it all would've been much better if he'd just eaten it while it was hot.

Dean raked a hand back through his hair, and it came away wet with sweat that was starting to go cold. "I'm not even sure I'm still gonna have feet tomorrow morning."

In answer, Sam picked up the bottle of Pepto and examined it. He swished the contents around, leaving a milky pink film on the inside of the upper half. "Y'know, bubblegum's really kinda fifties...I think Baby would look better in millennial pink."

Dean had no idea what that even was (although he'd definitely be Googling it later), but he was sure it'd look awful on anything. Especially his car. That dampened the happiness he'd normally have felt over this being one of those rare times where Sam called Baby by her proper name.

"How the hell d'you know so many different kinds of pink?" he demanded. "You sound like a sixteen-year-old girl."

Sam just flashed something that might've been a smirk if another burp hadn't interrupted it. He swallowed and determinedly attacked what was left of the eggs.

"Better go get breakfast," he told Dean. "You've still gotta hit the gym. Weights, sit-ups, push-ups. I'll tell you how many of each you've gotta do, and trust me, you're not gonna like it."

Dean stayed at the table, just staring at him, for what felt like a solid minute. Part of it was because he just couldn't believe him. A larger part was that he wanted to give his legs as much time as possible to recover, because he wasn't entirely sure they'd hold him again yet. That, and the thought of putting his feet back to work made him damn near want to cry.

"There is something wrong with you," he told Sam eventually, dead serious. "Like, you're sick. Really."

Sam shrugged, unconcerned. "Speaking of sick. If I puke, is that a forfeit?"

"You bet your ass it is." Dean planted his hands, which he could barely feel, on the glowing map that covered their table (Antarctica, specifically), and hauled himself slowly upright with a deep breath that he sucked in through his teeth. It hurt. It was awful. But he didn't immediately collapse, so it was actually better than he'd expected. "Jesus. Man up already, would you? It's just bacon and eggs."

He headed for the kitchen at a snail's pace, to try his hand at the bland crap he saw Sam making for himself every morning. He had to stop partway there to lean on the wall, panting. He glared down at the clown shoes on his feet, surprised the white and silver mesh hadn't gone red.

"Okay," Dean announced, raising his head and slapping the wall. "Soon as I'm done with your stupid exercise routine, we're heading into town. To get me some new shoes."

"'Kay," Sam agreed. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him. From this angle, he wasn't blocked by the table from the waist down, so Dean could see that he was looking a little bloated under his sleep shirt. He'd even tugged his sweats down so the waistband wouldn't squeeze him. "Wait, you said 'we.'" He put his fork down and looked back at Dean. "Why do I have to go?"

"'Cause we're running low on groceries," Dean replied. "So you might wanna lay down after you're done eating. You're looking a little..." He trailed off, patting his own stomach, which growled loudly in response. God, was he ever craving something more substantial than toast and scrambled eggs. Scrambled egg _whites_.

"Screw you," Sam grunted, picking up his fork again. He was almost done, and it looked like he wasn't going to let those last few potatoes get the best of him.

"Don't worry, your stomach'll stretch." Dean resumed his journey into the kitchen, waiting until he was past halfway to call, "'Specially 'cause we're gonna get you lunch while we're in town. Double bacon cheeseburger and chili fries...slice of pie for dessert."

Sam's loud groan brought a grin to Dean's cold-chapped face, and almost made the pain in his face worth it.

Almost.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had to admit that, after a couple of days, he was ready to quit.

Hell, if he hadn't had so much riding on it, then he would've, because this just _sucked_. He hurt, constantly. Exactly like he would after a particularly tough hunt, except even worse. His chest, stomach, arms, legs - the muscles all felt like they'd been ripped apart. Which, according to Sam, was more or less what'd actually happened. Mornings were the absolute worst; when Sam came in to wake him up on the second day, he had to help him out of bed, because he'd been so stiff he couldn't move. Luckily, he'd been able to argue that being physically unable to do something wasn't the same as giving up. He'd also gone jogging anyway, which had actually made him feel better. For about fifteen minutes. Then things, including his feet wrapped like cuts of tenderized pork in his stiff new running shoes, started getting worse.

He was even more bowlegged than usual, shuffling around the bunker like he was ninety. Just the prospect of stairs, or bending over, or lifting something that weighed more than a pound was enough to make him tear up.

He got why Sam had told him he'd regret eating, too, even though he hadn't stopped following that advice. He'd had to stop jogging twice to bend over and dry heave in the woods. It'd felt like he'd bring up a kidney any second. And he'd actually barfed in the bathroom right off the bunker's gym, though that'd been only once. It hadn't even happened while he'd been doing sit-ups or anything. It'd been after he was finished, while he was toweling off the rivers of sweat he seemed to be producing lately.

He was sure that was why he was breaking out almost as bad as he ever had in his entire life. Face, chest, back - it was like being fifteen all over again, and that was not a period of his life he was eager to relive. Again. Been there, done that, still had the hoodie to show for it. Maybe he should have invested in some stronger soap along with the new shoes. He should add that to Sam's shopping list.

Ironically, even with all the puking, another thing was that Dean was hungry. All the time. It reminded him of seven or eight years ago, when Zachariah had wiped his memories and dumped him into the role of a corporate yuppie. Who'd had a fondness for juice cleanses and an aversion to solid food to go with it. Sam's rabbit food left him with much the same feeling that that had: empty and hollow at the core. Unsatisfied. When he mentioned it to Sam - just _mentioned_ , didn't complain about it - he was less than sympathetic, to say the least.

"It's just because you're not constantly gorging yourself, like you're used to," Sam said. He was sitting at one of the tables in the library, eyes fixed on the book he had his arms folded across the lower half of to keep open. He hadn't even looked up when Dean practically dragged himself in. "You're fine; you'll get used to it. You're thirty-eight - your metabolism's been slowing down for years, so this is actually better for you. Unless you get the shakes, you don't need to eat any more."

"Yeah, I'm finding that tough to believe," Dean replied, sprawled in his own chair. God, did it ever feel good to sit down. He was dreading getting back up, though. It was always terrible. "My stomach's eating itself."

"Oh, that's too bad." All of a sudden, Sam turned and stood up, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and lifting it to about nipple level. "Meanwhile, I'm dealing with _this_."

Dean couldn't help blinking in shock and leaning back in his chair a little bit. Not out of disgust, just so he could get a better look at what Sam was showing him. And it was definitely something. Sam was wearing jeans, and the button of them was popped in order to accommodate the curve of his belly, which also had the waistband riding down quite a bit. He was swollen from the bottom of his ribcage to his groin. Not huge or anything, but definitely noticeable.

"Whoa," Dean said, eyes still on the puffy dome that Sam's stomach had turned into. It wasn't fat, just food. It'd only been a couple days, and nobody gained weight that fast without the help of a curse, and he didn't know where Sam would've picked up one of those. It was surprising anyway, though. After all, it wasn't like Dean made a habit of looking at Sam's bare belly, but when he had happened to glance at it (usually on his way to looking lower), he was used to the coppery skin, dusted liberally with moles and sparsely with dark hair, lying flat against the vague shapes of muscles.

"Yeah." Sam arched the small of his back slightly, making the curve more pronounced.

Dean stared at Sam's stomach for a moment longer, then raised his eyes to his younger brother's. "So...when's it due?"

Sam's scowl was the kind that produced permanent frown lines. "Shut up. This is all your fault."

"Oh, shit, it's mine?" Dean did an exaggerated double take at Sam's stomach, then made a show of calculating the timeline. Four months, so that'd be about right. "Okay, well, we're gonna need to have a talk, 'cause there might be some problems, us being brothers and all - " He jerked back again to avoid the light, open-handed blow Sam tried to throw at him, wheezing through the laugh that bubbled up from the pit of his own very sore stomach. "Crap, Sammy, don't make me laugh, it hurts."

"I'm not _trying_ to make you laugh," Sam replied. The frustration in his voice was very evident, so Dean forced himself to take the situation a little more seriously.

"Okay, okay, sorry," he apologized. "Does this hurt?" he gestured to Sam's belly, full and bloated. He'd fed him lunch (grilled cheese and fries from a diner in town) about thirty minutes ago, so he would've hated to see what he looked like right after he ate.

"Well, it doesn't feel good," Sam answered, and Dean laid a hand on his stomach. On the side, practically cupping it. It was warm, of course,and firm. It gurgled busily under his palm, so at least Sam was digesting. His hand rose and fell as Sam took in and let out a breath, and then he unexpectedly dropped his shirt over it. Dean took his hand back as Sam sat down again. "Don't touch it."

"Tummy rub'd make you feel better," Dean replied, shrugging.

"I'll pass." Back in his chair, Sam eyed him. "You ever calculated how many calories a day you eat?"

"Uh, no." Of course not.

"Well, it's obscene." Sam didn't give him a number, which was just fine, because Dean suspected that it wouldn't have meant much to him even if he had.

"And yet, somehow, I never wind up looking like that," Dean replied, waving a hand in the general direction of Sam's midsection. "Why is that happening to you, anyway? I mean, seriously. You're bigger than I am."

"Must be some kind of difference in our abdominal cavities," Sam replied, turning back to his book. "You were right. My stomach needs to stretch." He shot Dean a quick glare. "But I am _not_ giving up"

"Well, in that case..." Dean forced himself up and did his very best not to let on how much it hurt, using his muscles again after letting them sit still for a little while.

"Where are you going?" Sam wanted to know.

"To grab you a beer and a bag of chili-lime jerky," Dean replied. He knew they had beer - they always had beer - but he hoped they still had some jerky in the pantry. He'd check his room if he couldn't find any.

"Oh, come on," Sam complained loudly, flopping back in his chair and throwing his arms up. The action pulled his shirt up again, too, exposing a slice of belly. "Even you would never eat that right after lunch."

"Well, we can stand here and argue about that all day if we want, but the fact is that I'm craving it right now, so you're getting it," Dean said.

"You know you can have a beer yourself, right?" Sam pointed out. "I _do_ drink. Not as much as you, but still probably more than I should."

"That's great to hear. I'll be sure and grab me one, too, while I'm in there." Dean kept on heading for the library entrance.

"This is so unfair," Sam proclaimed. "You're only craving it 'cause you're not eating like you normally do. It's not what you'd usually eat - this wasn't part of the deal."

Dean didn't say anything. Instead, since he was walking by Sam's chair anyway, he just grabbed a handful of his long, wavy hair and examined it. It was silky, finer than his own and healthy-shiny in the light, a rich dark chocolate brown with caramel highlights. Touching it reminded him, almost painfully, of taking fistfuls of it during sex. It really would be a shame to shave it all off.

Sam reacted immediately, jerking away. His hair was practically whipped out of Dean's hand; it was a miracle he didn't leave any strands behind. He turned his head in order to glare up at Dean. It was clear that he'd understood the message, although he clearly wasn't happy about it.

"Y'know what I'm craving?" he asked, then continued before Dean could speculate. "Wind sprints. Up and down the stairs."

Dean found that pretty unlikely, but instead of saying so, he just put on a smile as he kept on heading for the kitchen.

"Right on," he said. "I'll get on that as soon as I get you your snack." He wanted a beer himself. Really, really bad, since he'd basically quit booze cold turkey after taking on this bet and he suspected that that might be at least a minor contributing factor in why he felt like shit. But he knew that drinking anything would be a bad idea right before running up and down the stairs a jillion times.

" _All_ the stairs," Sam called after him, and Dean's teeth involuntarily gritted.

They didn't talk much for the rest of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

Around the middle of the second week, they were both getting used to it, so they didn't hate each other quite so much. Frankly, Dean was relieved. Hating Sam was exhausting (as he'd found out multiple times over their lives, especially right after the breakup), and even with his body slowly adjusting to the new diet and exercise regiment that he had going on, he didn't have a whole lot of energy to spare.

Now that the muscle soreness had faded into something manageable, though, and he wasn't throwing up every day, he kind of liked the way he felt after he was done running or lifting weights. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired, like after wrapping up a hunt that'd gone particularly well. Not that he'd ever even dream of admitting to Sam that he was kind of enjoying himself.

The food still sucked, though. And Dean got that Sam didn't feel anywhere near the same way about food that he did, wasn't a great cook and didn't even enjoy eating all that much, but c'mon. Would it kill him to add some sriracha to his egg whites? Or some ranch to his baby spinach?

Speaking of Sam, he seemed to be doing better, too. No more stomachaches or nausea on his end, either, and he was bitching about what Dean made for him much less than he had been (not that that was saying a whole lot; if there'd been an Olympic event for bitching, Sam would've qualified years ago). He was actually managing to stay on top of the cleaning and the shopping, too, and Dean was liking that he had a break from that himself.

Other than that, Sam was taking a lot of naps. Dean figured that that was normal - some kinda food coma thing. He wasn't complaining about it and he'd always needed more sleep than Dean himself, so he couldn't think of a reason to be concerned.

In fact, when he stopped by his room one afternoon, that was what he was doing. Napping. He was curled up on his side, back to the door, and Dean knew he actually was asleep by the way he jerked slightly when Dean rapped on the wall to get his attention.

"Hey," he said. "I gotta make a run into town to get more grippy tape for your weights. The stuff that's on there is peeling off and it's driving me nuts. You want anything?"

Sam rolled over. Or half rolled over, at least. His upper body moved while his legs stayed put, and he placed his hands on his shoulders in order to stretch, elbows coming up as he grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut.

He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, which basically just seemed to have become his "not doing shit today" uniform. Which was fine, because Dean had one of those and it looked pretty similar. But his twisting and stretching pulled the fabric of his shirt taut across his belly, which was looking every bit as rounded right now as it had back at the very beginning. Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"So that's still going on, huh?" he asked, nodding to Sams middle. Sam lifted his head in order to get a look at his own stomach, then dropped his back to his pillow with a groan.

"Yeah," he said. "It's fine when I get up in the morning, but then I eat, and it's like this for pretty much the whole rest of the day." He put a hand on the swell, patted it. A little roughly; Dean had to stop himself from wincing, remembering how sensitive he got when he was that full. "I know, it's gross."

"Nah, not really, it's just..." Dean trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm not sure that's normal. Shouldn't your stomach've stretched out or something by now?"

"It's barely been over a week, Dean," Sam pointed out, bringing one arm up again and folding it behind his head. "Pretty sure my body's gonna need more time than that to change so drastically. I mean, you haven't got a six-pack coming up yet, have you?"

"You think I'm gonna get a six-pack?" Dean asked, maybe a little too eagerly. Sam snorted.

"Not in six weeks."

"Oh." Dean did his best to mask his disappointment by moving into the room, stopping over by Sam's bed. "Well, going back to that food baby you've got there." He touched Sam's belly himself, just with the tips of his fingers. "Maybe we should call this whole thing off."

He looked at Sam's face to gauge his reaction. He'd expected to see relief, written pathetically clear across his features, but much to his surprise, it instead looked like Sam was trying to fight a smug grin. He wasn't doing that great at it, either. Irritated, Dean demanded, "What?"

"Dude," Sam said. "Are you...trying to chicken out?"

"What?" Dean was incredulous. "Of course not!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay, I'm not judging you," Sam soothed, his condescending tone making it very clear that he was as he held up a hand. "My exercise routine is super tough. I get that. It's not for everyone...but millennial pink totally _is_. It's _so_ big right now, Dean, everybody's just gonna lo - _ohjesuschrist._ "

That last exclamation had been triggered by Dean poking him right in the belly button, hard enough to force a burp out of him and make him double up slightly. He felt a little guilty for a second, but at least it'd made him shut up. Plus, there'd been plenty of give in there. Sam could stand to eat more.

"Fine," Dean said, figuring that this would teach him to be nice. "That's the last time I'm gonna offer you a way out."

"Yeah, I don't actually want a way out," Sam replied, stretching again once he'd recovered. Luxuriously this time, slowly. "Maybe life's sucking for you, but I'm having a great time. Sitting around all day stuffing your face is not anywhere near as hard as you tried to make it sound."

"Well, a toddler could do your stupid 'exercise routine.'" Dean said the words mockingly and threw up air quotes around them. "And you know what? Doesn't matter if you want me to get you anything or not, 'cause you're getting a liter of Mountain Dew, a bag of barbecue potato chips, and a pint of double-fudge ice cream." That was what Dean wanted after this conversation, anyway.

"That all sounds pretty good right now," Sam replied mildly.

"And I expect you to eat it all before dinner." Dean pointed at him.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

As Dean left Sam's room and headed for the garage, he had to reach down to adjust the crotch of the jeans he'd pulled on after his post-workout shower. All of this exercise and weird food must be messing his body up even more than he'd originally thought. That was the only reason he'd be going up at the thought of feeding Sam more and filling his belly even fuller.


	6. Chapter 6

They found a case near the end of the third week - or, in other words, about halfway through the bet. Sam was the one who turned it up, which was par for the course probably about sixty to seventy percent of the time. It wasn't like Dean didn't look, too. He definitely did. In his opinion, Sam just found more because he was the smarter one out of the two of them. Better at recognizing patterns.

"Okay...victim was a recent widow who was just acquitted of poisoning her husband, and she was found dead in a locked room of symptoms similar to the ones that killed him," Dean summarized. He had his hand on the back of Sam's chair and was leaning over his shoulder, scanning the article he had up on the screen of his laptop. "Yeah, okay. Sounds like a pretty standard vengeful spirit to me - _not_ a poltergeist." He straightened once he'd gotten the gist, glancing back down just in time to see Sam roll his eyes. "Sounds like he pretty much got his revenge, but still. We should check it out and make sure he's gone."

"That's what I was thinking," Sam agreed, clearing his throat and reaching for the beer near his elbow. "He might go rogue."

"Right, right." Dean folded his arms over his chest and took a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say wouldn't go over well. He didn't feel all that great about it himself, either, but he had to say it anyway. "You sure you wanna go hunting right now, though?"

Just as he'd expected, Sam twisted in his seat and stared up at him incredulously. His lips were currently pressed to the mouth of the bottle, though, so he had to finish drinking before he could say anything. He set the beer down firmly on the table in front of him, swallowed loudly, then asked, "Uh, what d'you mean by that, exactly?"

"Well, I'm just thinking that, maybe, we should hold off 'til we're done with...this." Dean gestured vaguely to the two of them.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Dean asked defensively.

"You're suggesting we just ignore the fact that innocent people are in danger," Sam stated. "Maybe even let them die. Just to make things easier on us. That about right?"

"That is not what I said."

"Y'know, I've seen you fall asleep standing up on hunts before 'cause you pushed yourself so hard. Took 'em on back to back." Sam shook his head. "What's the matter with you? What happened to 'saving people, hunting things?' 'The family business?'"

"Jesus. It was just a suggestion." Dean threw up his hands. "I wouldn't've made it if I'd known you'd get your panties in such a twist."

"Are you still sore? Is that it?" Sam asked with overexaggerated concern. "Can you just not handle hours in the car? Or those hard motel beds? Or gravedigging?"

"Actually, I'm feeling great," Dean said, smug because it was true. "It's you I'm worried about, seeing as you've still got this whole Goodyear Blimp thing going on." He bent in order to grab at Sam's belly, poking him teasingly. Breakfast had been a couple hours ago, but he'd been snacking since then, so his belly was just as round and puffed up as it usually was. It must've been pretty sensitive, too, because Sam yelped and shied away so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. It was a good thing he hadn't. They were in the library, which meant there was nothing between him and a floor hard enough to at least bruise his tailbone. That'd definitely keep them from hunting.

"Cut it out," Sam snapped, swatting Dean's hands away. Dean held them up again, this time in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm just worried," he said, in as neutral a tone of voice as he could manage, "that that's gonna be a problem."

"Well, it's not," Sam said, picking up his beer again and angrily draining the last of it in two quick gulps. "Don't lose any sleep over me."

"Okay," Dean agreed, perfectly content to provide Sam with just as much rope as he needed if he was really that determined to hang himself. Sam apparently didn't pick up on that, though, because he continued.

"I think you're forgetting that I was in decent shape before we started this," he said. "Actually, I still am. Three weeks isn't going to undo all of that."

"Okay," Dean repeated, starting to get a little annoyed.

"And don't bring up what I know you're thinking now, either," Sam went on. "We're not taking a break while we're working a case. I'm definitely not letting you off the hook that easy."

Dean actually hadn't been thinking about that at all. But at the moment, it just seemed easier to once again say, "Okay."

So they went hunting. And it was surprisingly pleasant. For one thing, Dean got to sleep in. Go back to bed, really. Sam came into his room while he was lacing up his running shoes. He'd forgotten to tell him the night before, so he was really glad he'd managed to catch him before he headed out: he didn't go jogging the mornings before they left to work a case. So Dean could catch another hour or four of shut-eye. In fact, he wanted him to, since he'd be driving.

Dean was impressed and almost touched that Sam woke up so early just to tell him that he didn't need to go jogging. That'd been really nice of him; totally at odds with his recent bitchy behavior. Although...in the car, on the highway that'd take them most of the way to their destination, Dean silently admitted to himself that he missed the jogging this morning. The way it made him feel. The way it woke him up, at the very least.

Good thing the hunt itself was a milk run. After talking to a few people around town, it became very obvious that their vic had been a gold digger. Her dead husband - almost thirty years older than her and a modest dot-com millionaire - hadn't been a saint, either, but he definitely hadn't deserved to be slowly poisoned with drain cleaner, which was what the local ME was convinced had done him in. Her, too, albeit at a highly accelerated pace. With her out of the picture, all the money had gone to the guy's kids, who (nice surprise) seemed like genuinely decent people.

Of course, they still had to dig up, salt, and burn their father's body. Just in case. Thankfully, Sam and Dean had come to a mutual decision that that could wait until tomorrow. Dean knew that he personally wanted to put it off for as long as possible, seeing as the corpse had been in the ground for a period of time the two of them sarcastically referred to as the "sweet spot:" plenty of time for the embalming to wear off, but not nearly long enough for him to rot away to nothing but bones.

Dean would rather not think about that right now. Dinner was coming up fast and, while he _could_ eat with visions of liquefying cadavers dancing in his head, it wouldn't be fun.

Luckily, he'd succeeded in putting it firmly out of his mind by the time they entered the restaurant they'd settled on. The place was a little nicer than they were used to. It even had an all-you-can-eat buffet set up. Sam had that, Dean the tilapia steak with a side of steamed broccoli. It was "heart-healthy," apparently. He was just reflecting on how poor of a reward that was for all the pavement-pounding he'd done today when Sam sighed heavily and shoved the empty plate he'd been given across the table towards him.

"Here," he said. "Have at it."

Dean stared down at the plate, uncomprehending. Today hadn't even been that bad, but he must be more tired than he'd thought, because he had no idea what Sam was asking him to do. For a second, he wondered if he was trying to trick him into hitting the buffet himself and therefore forfeiting, and an image of Baby with her black gloss obscured by an ugly, washed-out pink flashed momentarily into his brain.

"Uh...what?" he asked, looking up at Sam.

"Go ahead," Sam replied, nodding to the plate. "Fill it up for me. You probably know what you'd eat better than I do - even if I've got a pretty decent idea by now." He smiled slightly. "Don't worry about giving me too much. I'm starving."

That'd make sense. Dean tended to get super hungry while they were working, partly because of the physical exertion and partly because he couldn't graze like he did at home. Sam would be going through the same thing. Three weeks would be long enough to get used to eating like he had been.

"All righty," Dean said, picking up the plate with a shrug and playing off the relief he felt that this wasn't a trick. "You do know you're not gonna be eating just one plateful, though, right?"

"I have been to a buffet with you before, Dean," Sam pointed out, smirking.

Dean rolled his eyes as he grabbed the plate and got to his feet, but truth be told, he wasn't actually offended. Today had put him in a really good mood. He even went easy on Sam at the buffet, despite the fact that he was starving himself and not looking forward to the entree he had coming. He could've loaded him up with something he knew he'd hate, like the li'l smokies simmering in a bath of their own grease in the chafing dish, but instead, he filled the plate with respectable portions of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans with garlic. He topped it off with a couple of potato rolls before returning to the table.

His own meal had arrived by the time he got back, and much to his relief, it didn't look nearly as bad as its description on the menu had made it sound. There wasn't too much broccoli to contend with, and the cut of tilapia looked hearty enough to satisfy his hunger. It was drenched in what appeared to be some kind of lemon-butter sauce, too. He noted how good it smelled when he gave Sam back his plate and then took a seat across from him.

Dean speared a piece of broccoli with his fork and dredged it through some of the excess sauce on his plate, just curious as to whether or not it would be any good. As he was raising it to his mouth, he happened to glance at Sam, who was staring down at his own plate with a faintly surprised expression on his face.

"Um...thanks," he said eventually, lifting his eyes to Dean's and blinking at him. "It looks really good."

"Don't mention it," Dean replied, putting the broccoli in his mouth. It really was good with the sauce all over it, and he'd been right: it was lemon butter. "And hurry up and eat, would you? There's gonna be a lot more where that came from, and I don't wanna be here all night."

Sam shook his head at Dean talking with a full mouth and gesturing with his fork, but he was smiling slightly as he did it. Maybe he was feeling as good as Dean was. He definitely had a healthy appetite, seeing as he practically licked his plate clean, along with the next one that Dean brought him. And the next.

Later, Dean honestly wasn't sure what'd happened then. He wasn't mad at Sam, didn't wanna hurt him or make him sick. He wasn't trying to push him to his limits and force him to quit, like he had the first couple of days. He wasn't even needling him out of spite because he hurt from exercising or hated the food he was eating (actually, the tilapia had been fantastic).

Actually, come to think of it, why the hell were they even still going through with this bet? They'd made it during an argument where they'd both felt awful, and things were way different now than they'd been three weeks ago. They wouldn't even have to worry about the punishments if they just mutually agreed to let it drop. Dean knew Sam wouldn't be at all cool about it if he brought that up, though, just because he was stubborn as a jackass, and for Dean himself, there was a lot of pride on the line at this point.

Whatever. It was all stupid. And the gist of the issue was that Dean fed Sam a lot more than he should have. Than the rules of the bet required, even. In his defense, though, it wasn't like Sam had even so much as complained at any point.

"I'd eat more than that," Dean commented, when Sam pushed away his third empty plate. He wasn't totally sure what'd made him say it, wasn't even sure it was true. "I mean, if it were me."

Sam's mouth formed easily into a smirk.

"That's funny," he commented. "I was actually just about to ask you to get me another plate."

So Dean did. A few more plates, actually. There were four kinds of meat available (beef, pork, turkey, and chicken), not counting the smokies, and he made Sam try them all. There was pasta, too, and lots of cooked veggies. More than one variety of bread. Potatoes done a couple different ways. All sorts of good stuff, in other words. And that was to say nothing of the desserts.

For his part, Sam seemed to be enjoying himself. His pace hardly flagged as time went on, though he did completely stop talking. It was partly because of how laid back he was acting that Dean didn't even think about how much food he'd put in front of him until there was a little pinging noise, like something hitting the table's one metal leg, and Sam grunted.

So, really, it was at least a little bit his fault, too.

"What the hell was that?" Dean made to look under the table, because you didn't survive as a hunter if you didn't investigate weird noises. Sam answered his question before he could, though.

"Button popping off my shirt," he said, halfway through a plate of peach cobbler and pineapple mousse. It was the first time in a while that Dean had heard his voice, and he sounded just a tad strained.

Dean frowned, thinking of the white button-ups that he and Sam both wore as part of their FBI ensembles (which, of course, they'd been in all day). They weren't super expensive by any means, but it wasn't like they'd bought them at the dollar store, and they were in decent shape. Sam would know better than he did, since he'd been the one to iron them the day before they left as part of Dean's usual chores. Still, Dean couldn't see a button just falling off. It falling wouldn't've produced that noise, either.

"Why'd it do that?"

"Why d'you think?" Sam replied. Realizing what usually made buttons shoot off a shirt, Dean leaned forward, across the table. He couldn't manage to get a good look at Sam's belly that way, though, so he dropped back into his seat.

"Stand up," he instructed, and Sam groaned in response, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the booth.

"Oh, god, don't make me do that," he all but pleaded. "Not unless we're gonna leave."

"Okay, then..." Dean slid out of the booth and got to his feet, walking around to Sam's side. He made a twirling gesture with his finger. "Turn around. Show me."

Even in profile, Dean could tell that Sam's stomach was more bloated than he'd ever seen it before. It mounded out from just under his ribcage to down between his hips. Even though it was partially obscured by the drape of his suit jacket, it was clear that it peaked around where his navel would be. And when he twisted, the movement slow and ginger, so his belly was aimed towards Dean, Dean saw that that was where the button had popped off. A diamond of taut fabric, loose thread trailing from one side, framed his belly button, which looked oddly flat. The buttons above and below the one Sam had lost didn't seem too far off from joining it, mole-studded tan skin visible between them, too. The bulk of Sam's overfed gut practically rested on his thighs, and he laid a hand on the side, cupping the curve.

Dean's jaw literally dropped. And as it went down, he could feel something else, much lower, going up.

"This doesn't happen to you," Sam said, sounding like that'd just occurred to him. Then he hiccuped. And winced; it must've hurt. "Not even when we hit buffets."

"Uh, no." Dean couldn't take his eyes off Sam's belly. He hadn't even known it was possible for someone to expand that much over the course of one meal. "Why in the hell didn't you just stop eating?"

"Well, I was really hungry, and it was all pretty good..." Sam rested an elbow on the table, supporting his head with his free hand as he closed his eyes and grimaced. "Plus, I didn't realize how full I was 'til the button thing happened. I was just thinking I might need to undo my pants or my shirt."

"Doesn't it hurt?" Dean wanted to know.

"Well, _now_ it does."

Glancing at the half-full plate of dessert still sitting on the table in front of Sam, then returning to staring at his stomach, Dean said, "I'd say you're done."

"Yeah." Sam moved the hand he had resting on his middle, just a bit. "You think?"

Dean looked around. The restaurant had been pretty crowded when they entered, and even though a lot of people had left since then, it was still more or less full. At least nobody was looking at the two of them. Except for a waiter who kept sneaking looks in their direction as he jotted down some newcomers' drink orders, the concern on his face making Dean think he was debating whether or not to come over and ask them what was going on.

"Let's get you back to the room, then," Dean said, pulling his wallet out as he calculated the bill in his head. Normally, he would've made Sam pay, since he'd eaten more. He was always pulling that bullshit with Dean. But his slacks were looking awful tight on him. Dean didn't even want him to try getting his own wallet out. "Need help getting up?"

"No," Sam replied, a stubborn note in his voice. So Dean watched him waste close to a minute trying and failing to get out of the booth on his own, grunting with effort and then hissing in pain as he hauled himself up a couple inches only to fall right back down onto his ass. Finally, panting, he gave up. "Yeah, okay. Fine."

Dean pulled a bundle of bills out of his wallet, folding them in half and sticking them under one of Sam's empty plates. Hopefully no one would grab it before a waiter came to clear the table. Then he helped Sam scoot to the edge of the seat, wrapped an arm around him, and took hold of the wrist of the arm that Sam draped over his shoulders. Once he had a good grip on everything, he lifted him.

It really wasn't all that difficult. Sure, Sam was heavy even when he wasn't stuffed to the gills; six feet and four inches of muscle tended to tip the scales. But Dean was hardly a weakling, and he'd gotten used to dragging Sam's bulk around over the years. Still, he groaned loudly and swore under his breath as he helped him up, then staggered exaggeratedly once he had Sam's full weight leaning on him. Because if he couldn't have a little bit of fun at his younger brother's expense, then was life even really worth living anymore?

In the bright lights of the diner, it was easy to see how hard Sam was blushing, eyes fixed on the floor as Dean guided the two of them towards the entrance. He must've been so busy being embarrassed that he didn't even notice no one was paying any attention to him. There might've been a few uninterested glances as they moved past, but nobody was staring Dean doubted that anybody who wasn't looking directly at Sam's stomach would know there even was a problem, much less what it was.

Until they reached the car, Sam took slow, shuffling steps, leaned heavily into Dean, and used his free hand to unsuccessfully try and cover up his stomach with his suit jacket. Occasionally, he tensed up, and Dean imagined he was stifling a burp or a hiccup. He was kind of expecting a warning from him not to use this opportunity to cop a feel, but it never came. Maybe Sam figured that Dean couldn't possibly find him attractive in his current state.

The tent he was currently pitching in his own slacks had a different say on the matter, but that was just one more thing that Sam was currently too distracted to notice.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly, once Dean had gotten him settled in the passenger seat. Dean opened his mouth to reply that he owed him one, but the words died in his mouth when Sam suddenly buried his face in his hands, the hair that he really hoped he wouldn't have to shave off tumbling down over his fingers and shining in the light coming from the diner. "God, I'm such a fucking _moron_. I should've just sucked it up and said yes when you suggested holding off on hunting."

"Hey, no, you were right," Dean was quick to counter, hurrying around to Baby's other side and sliding in behind the wheel so he and Sam were sitting next to each other. It beat leaning down to talk to him through the open passenger side door. "I'm real glad we took this case, Sam. These're good people. Would've sucked if their dad's ghost offed 'em."

"I know, it would've been selfish, I just..." He paused to burp, letting it out slowly so it wouldn't jostle his stomach. It was a move Dean recognized, being intimately familiar with overeating himself. "I always get on your case for eating like a pig, and then I go do the exact same thing."

"Worse than I ever did," Dean was unable to resist pointing out as he eyed Sam's swollen belly, which was still fully visible. Once again, his dick twitched in response.

"Yeah. Exactly." Sam let his hands drop, and Dean forced his eyes upward, from his belly to his face. As far as he could tell, he wasn't crying, but he sure looked frustrated. Not to mention completely miserable. "I was just so freaking hungry after today."

That was something Dean could sympathize wholeheartedly with. Sam was clearly upset, not to mention actually opening up to him for the first time in months. It was mildly tempting to be a jerk, but he decided not to.

"Honestly, I'm just kinda glad to see you actually enjoying food so much," Dean replied. "That first week was real rough for you. You walked around looking like you were gonna throw up the whole time." He paused, then asked, "You don't feel sick right now, do you?"

"No," Sam answered, putting a hand on the side of his belly again and letting out another soft, slow burp. "Mostly, right now, it just hurts. Not to mention I'm super uncomfortable."

"Well, we'll get you outta the suit as soon as we get you back to the room," Dean told Sam. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, but didn't put them in the ignition just yet. Sam was still breathing pretty hard from the walk out, and Dean wanted to give him as much time to recover as possible before they left, seeing as their motel wasn't all that far from this place. "That might be part of your problem. Speaking of which, go ahead and undo the rest of your buttons. Just looking at you's making me hurt."

Sam didn't need to be told twice, now that there was no one around to see his shame. Dean watched his long fingers, usually so nimble, fumbling with the remaining buttons on his shirt. He was having a hard time getting them back through their holes because of how tight the fabric was. Eventually, though, he managed it, then went after the one on his pants. He had to brace his feet against the floor and push himself up in his seat in order to get it, reaching underneath his overfull stomach as he sucked it in, and Dean wasn't sure what it was about that display that set him off, but his cock reacted like he was at his own private strip show.

"Better?" he asked Sam once he'd sunk back down in his seat and relaxed, panting and sighing in relief. His voice came out a little rougher than normal, but Sam didn't seem to pick up on it.

"Ooh, yeah," he agreed, his belly heaving in time with his breathing. Dean's eyes were automatically drawn to it again; it was mesmerizing. "You're right about the suit, though." Using both hands, he swept the sides of his shirt and jacket away from his gut, exposing the full round glory of it. "It's...restrictive."

"Don't worry. You can slip into something more comfortable as soon as we get home," Dean said with a teasing grin, risking the jibe because Sam seemed to be doing better. Then, without thinking, he reached over to pat his belly.

Just like when he'd touched it two and a half weeks ago, it was warm and firm. Except even more so on both of those counts: blast-furnace hot and almost rock-solid. There was no give whatsoever under his hand, although each pat sent some kind of tiny tremor through Sam's core. He could feel that just as easily as he could feel the gurgling, also the same as last time but more intense. Air bubbles moving upwards so he could belch them out, and his guts working to put away the tens of thousands of empty calories he'd stuffed himself with.

After a second, Dean realized what he was doing. He was honestly surprised that Sam hadn't said anything. He almost took his hand away, but Sam surprised him by making a soft noise and pushing his belly up against Dean's palm.

"That feel good?" Dean asked, a little tentatively.

"Try - just rub it a little," Sam instructed. When Dean obeyed, he let his head fall back against his seat as he released a moan that had Dean glancing away from him, finally embarrassed about what he was feeling. He hadn't heard Sam make a noise like that since they last time they'd had sex. Or maybe the time before that, seeing as the very last time hadn't been all that great for either of them. " _That_ feels good."

"I told you this'd help weeks ago," Dean pointed out.

"It wasn't this bad weeks ago," Sam replied. Because he hadn't told him to stop, Dean kept rubbing. He had his hand on the upper part of Sam's stomach, a little afraid to dip any lower. He was just kind of kneading back and forth with his fingers and the heel of his hand, and doing that made him realize that there actually was some give, although not much. He could feel muscles that must have been cramping up releasing as he worked at them, which was probably a huge part of why this was making Sam feel better. It was a little awkward reaching off to the side like this, but maybe that was a good thing. Dean's free hand was wrapped around his keys, tight enough to make the metal teeth dig through the calluses on his palms and into the sensitive skin beneath, and he focused on the pain because he was afraid he might spontaneously nut if he let himself think too hard about what he was doing.

In the passenger seat, Sam burped and occasionally hiccuped, as the excess air was forced out of him by Dean's rubbing. Dean could tell that he was trying to be as quiet about it as possible, that he was embarrassed about this whole thing, and he wanted to tell him not to worry about it, but he also didn't want to make things any weirder than they already were. After all, he could also tell that Sam was stifling more moans, and trying not to push up into his hand again.

Eventually, sounding regretful, Sam spoke up. "We'd better get outta their parking lot before they call the cops on us for loitering."

"They better not try and boot us for at least an hour, after the sweet tip I left," Dean replied. "Plus, it ain't like we're having sex out here."

He put the keys in the ignition and twisted them anyway, though, ignoring the scowl that flickered across Sam's face as Baby roared to life. It wasn't as heavy as it usually would've been when Dean mentioned sex. Maybe he was tired - not like he didn't have reason to be.

The trip back to their motel was pretty much silent. After parking in front of their room's door, Dean climbed out of the driver's seat and helped Sam up again. He made sure the car was locked before taking him inside.

In the room, Dean switched on the lights, his back to Sam as he sank down heavily on his bed and got changed. There was a lot of grunting involved, and Dean busied himself taking off his own suit as he heard Sam lay down with a huge sigh. Almost as quickly as he'd done that, though, the springs creaked with him hauling himself back up and muttering, "Shit."

"What's the matter?" Tie and jacket off and shirt halfway unbuttoned, Dean turned slightly in order to look at him.

"Hurts to lay down." Sam had swapped out his suit for a T-shirt, the cotton fabric of which hugged his belly tightly, and a pair of sweats. He was sitting up with his legs crossed and his arms out behind him, planted on the mattress to support his weight, and he was once again looking absolutely miserable. Or maybe still.

"Well, yeah, if you eat enough, that's gonna happen," Dean pointed out with a shrug. Very reasonably too, he felt, but Sam responded with a groan.

"All I wanna do is lay down, though, 'cause I'm so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open and my back's really starting to hurt and - "

"All right, all right." Dean cut him off. "Quit whining, you big baby. I got you."

He grabbed the pillows off his own bed, then piled them together with the ones on Sam's, making a mountain directly behind him. Sam glanced over his shoulder to see what he was doing, hair falling into one eye, and Dean resisted the urge to brush it away for him. Once he was finished, he took a step back and instructed him, "Lie back now."

Sam didn't, though. He'd finally noticed the situation going on in Dean's groin area, and now his eyes - even the one covered by hair - were fixed on where the fabric was pulled just as tightly across Dean's cock as it'd been across his own stomach earlier. "Are you...uh..."

"Are you asking 'cause you literally don't know what a boner looks like?" Dean replied, then regretted the smartassery as soon as it was out of his mouth. "Sorry." He covered the bulge as best he could with one hand. "It needs to be taken care of, but I'll wait 'til you're comfortable."

"I'm not offended by your erection, Dean - I've seen it before," Sam said, a little dryly. "I'm just kind of wondering...y'know, _why_."

Dean could've given another sarcastic answer, about the body's natural reactions or expanding blood vessels. Instead, fluffing the pillows while he waited impatiently for Sam to lay back against them, he avoided eye contact and stated, "You kinda have that effect on me. 'Specially 'cause we've been closer tonight - not to mention touched more - than we have in months."

Sam finally laid down again, the pillows keeping his upper body elevated so the contents of his heavy belly wouldn't shift and hurt him. He looked up at Dean, prominent eyebrows drawing together. "I have that effect on you - " He gestured to Dean's crotch. " - even like this?" Now he gestured to his own midsection.

Dean bit back on the most honest answer, which was " _Especially_ like this," and instead just went with, "Obviously." He moved his hand to punctuate the statement.

They were both quiet for a few moments, Dean standing awkwardly beside the bed and Sam resting on his pillows. One had wound up in the small of his back, pushing his belly out even further. He almost absentmindedly dropped a hand to it, and Dean just barely kept himself from making a crack about grabbing his phone and doing an impromptu pregnancy photoshoot. It felt like at least a couple of minutes passed before Sam looked up at him and said, "Would it be weird if I asked you to rub it again?"

"Nah, of course not," Dean replied. "Sometimes that's the only thing that helps. Lemme just...y'know." He turned towards the bathroom.

"You don't have to," Sam said before he could head in and close the door. "I mean, I understand if you _need_ to, but if not...I don't mind."

"In that case, I think I'm okay." It'd probably be smart to rub one out before touching Sam again. Especially his belly. But there were times that Dean had zero interest in doing the smart thing, and this was one of them. "You need to get some sleep. Get rid of this thing. Trust me: you do _not_ wanna be carrying this around tomorrow morning, while we're digging up a grave." Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he gave Sam's belly another couple of pats.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'd figured that out." He reached down and pulled his shirt up, adjusting his position so Dean would have easier access. Then he waited, eyes aimed away, the very beginnings of a blush sprouting along the line of his cheekbones.

Dean didn't keep him waiting long. Climbing onto the bed proper after kicking off his shoes, he sat down besides Sam and tried to ignore the way that all this moving around made the fabric of his boxers rub uncomfortably against his hard dick. It was pretty easy, with something else ready and waiting for him to focus on it: Sam's stomach. He had a much better angle here than he'd had in the car. He could use both hands, and see the whole thing. The light helped with that, too. He went to work, focusing on being as gentle as he could while still pressing hard enough to make the muscles relax.

Just like he had in the car, he kept his hands on the upper half of Sam's belly. At least until he specifically urged him to go lower. Then he didn't have much of a choice.

They were both quiet for a while, besides the sounds that Sam was doing his best to stifle and the ones that his stomach was making, which he basically had no control over. Not to mention the quiet rasp of Dean's rough hands over the soft skin of his younger brother's stomach, occasionally catching on moles, hair, and scars. Dean worried he was hurting him, but Sam didn't say anything.

He did, though, eventually let out a very large burp that he apparently hadn't been able to stop in time. Dean glanced up at him with one eyebrow raised, though he didn't stop moving his hands around, and Sam looked away with a blush. A full one this time, dipping towards the "beet" end of the spectrum.

"Sorry," he said, draping a forearm over his eyes. "I'm gross. I know."

"Please," Dean replied. Cupping the apex of Sam's belly, he gave it a gentle shake, hopefully not enough to hurt. It didn't seem to bother him, although Dean did hear a lot of sloshing from inside. "I've seen way worse from you, believe me. You're talking to a guy who used to change your diapers."

"You're not helping me feel any less gross," Sam responded. Dean laughed, then winced and reached down to adjust the crotch of his slacks. Normally, laughing wouldn't've had anything to do with his cock, hard or not, but these things were apparently made of the least forgiving fabric known to man. Had he really never had an erection in them before?

Probably not, considering that he usually wore these pants to poke around gory crime scenes, inspect mutilated bodies in county morgues, and interview grieving witnesses. At least there were still a few things out there that didn't turn him on.

"Sorry," he said. "I gotta get outta these before they make my dick fall off." He let go of Sam, scooted off the bed, and reached for his duffel to dig out a T-shirt. He was surprised that Sam hadn't asked him to finish changing into his sleepwear earlier, considering that his shirt was hanging open to show off his chest. Then again, though, his nudity had never really seemed to bother Sam. Not even since the breakup.

"That's okay," Sam said. Another surprising thing, one that was actually surprising this time: he didn't suggest that Dean just go get rid of the problem that was making his suit so uncomfortable in the first place. "I definitely understand."

Dean left his suit in a pile on the floor. Right next to where Sam had left his, actually. He usually went to the trouble of putting it up, but Dean would cut him some slack tonight, considering the circumstances. They also needed to be washed, and that would be Sam's job, but since they probably wouldn't need them again for this case, it could wait 'til they got home.

"Wanna get the light before you come back?" Sam asked. Dean flipped the switch down, wincing at the popping noise it made, then returned to Sam's bed. As he climbed onto the protesting mattress again, he asked Sam, "Mind if I lay down? I'm beat, too, and we gotta get that body salted and burned before dawn. Promise I won't fall asleep. I'll keep rubbing, too."

Sam responded by pulling one of the pillows out of his pile and setting it next to himself. Dean could just barely see his movements in the orange sodium light pouring in through the curtains from the parking lot...and the round shape of his stomach. He crawled up next to him, laying his head on the pillow and folding one arm underneath it to make up for how flat it was. He laid the other hand on Sam's swollen belly and went back to delivering a massage meant to lull him to sleep.

They hadn't been apart nearly long enough for Dean to forget what Sam's body had felt like, and the longer he spent rubbing his belly tonight, the more convinced he got that there'd been a few changes. Besides the belly itself, of course. When he went high enough to find Sam's ribcage with his hand, the ribs didn't seem quite as easy to feel as they'd used to. And when he dipped down to either one of the sides, he found tiny - practically not even there at all, and definitely not likely to be noticed by anybody who wasn't actively groping Sam - swells of softness above his hips.

Dean didn't say anything, though. Not only were they both trying to go to sleep, but he felt like Sam had suffered more than enough embarrassment for one night already. Plus, it might just be water weight. Hardly worth commenting on.

He only got to focus on it for a second anyway, before something else much more interesting happened. Instead of falling asleep, Sam rolled his head to the side so that he was looking down at Dean. Dean pulled his arm out from under the pillow and propped his own head up on his hand, making them level. They were pretty close, studying each other in the dark. That was probably why it was so easy for them to kiss.

Dean couldn't've said who initiated it. If he'd leaned forward slightly, then Sam had definitely met him halfway. No matter who it'd been, though, it was nice. Soft and chaste. He could still taste peach cobbler on Sam's lips. Apparently, it'd been pretty good.

"Sorry," Dean said as soon as they broke apart, voice husky. He'd still been horny, of course, and the kiss hadn't helped at all.

"Don't be," Sam replied. "That was all me. Or at least fifty percent me." He paused to, once again, softly burp. " _I'm_ sorry."

"I ain't complaining." Dean would've liked to say more, and he concentrated on translating his feelings into words as he continued with Sam's tummy rub. By the time he had it figured out, though, another look at Sam made him realize that he'd fallen asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

During the fourth week, things got difficult for Dean again.

Exercise-wise, at least. Everything else-wise, they'd been difficult since the two of them had wrapped up the hunt in record time. Sam didn't want to talk and shut Dean down every time he tried. It was annoying as hell, especially seeing as that was usually Dean's shtick. At least he was just fine with being touched, especially right after he'd eaten. But even that was kind of annoying, since Sam had neglected to lay down any boundaries with said touching and Dean was too afraid of being closed out to try and see where they were.

None of that had to do with what was going on with his legs, though, and on Wednesday morning, his legs were all he could think about.

They'd started hurting a couple of days prior, during the morning jog portion of Sam's routine. It wasn't like that was anything new, so he just ignored it. He probably shouldn't have, seeing as it was usually muscle pain he felt and this was definitely not that. Maybe he should have asked Sam about it, especially as it got steadily worse every time he ran. But he didn't, so he passed a sweaty, pain-filled night that gave him even more flashbacks to puberty (growing pains this time, not acne), then screamed when he tried to stand up and get going for the day.

"So I'm gonna guess it's shin splints," Sam said, sliding another pillow under Dean's lower legs. He'd come running when Dean screamed, so fast that Dean wondered if he'd already been awake, despite his wild hair and sleep clothes.

"The fuck are those?" Dean grunted. Trying to get up had made things a million times worse, and even though he felt better now that his weight was off his legs, it still hurt like a son of a bitch. He got injured a lot in his line of work, but he'd never felt anything quite like this.

"Depends on who you talk to." Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. The light in Dean's room was already on, but he leaned over and switched on the lamp sitting on his nightstand, too. "Could be little tears in the muscle, could be microscopic fractures in the shin bone...whatever it is, it hurts."

"Yeah, I'd figured that one out all on my own, thanks." Dean flexed a foot, then hissed at the wave of pain the movement sent rocketing up towards his knee. "Why've I got them?"

"Usually, it's either exercising too much or exercising wrong," Sam replied. "I'm actually surprised this didn't happen to you sooner, since you've been doing both." For the first time, Dean noticed he was looking a little guilty. "After we made the bet and I cooled down, I started worrying about it. You went right into my regimen with no buildup at all, and between that and your legs..."

"What about my legs?" Dean demanded. As if on cue, both he and Sam looked down at them. Specifically, at the way they bowed out at the knees even while he was laying down. Dean changed the subject. "Are you saying you knew this was gonna happen?"

"Well, I knew there was a strong possibility you'd wind up hurting yourself, yeah."

"And you didn't say anything?" Dean shook his head and looked away, incredulous. "What if I'd broken a leg, Sam? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Look, I'm sorry!" Sam exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "I feel terrible. But you didn't seem all that concerned about what eating so much crap was doing to me. And I felt even worse when we came up with this whole stupid thing."

Well, that was probably true, considering how much that hunt had sucked for him. They'd both still been smarting pretty good from the breakup, too. Dean looked at Sam again, who seemed to take that as permission to continue.

"You've been taking real good care of me lately, though," he said. "And I can take care of you. I'm sorry for acting like such a dick."

"Apology accepted," Dean replied. "But I'm not going to a doctor."

"A doctor wouldn't be able to do much for you, anyway," Sam said. "You don't have to run anymore, since it'll take at least a month for this to heal up completely." Dean grimaced at that. "You can take a break from the other stuff for a couple days, too. Rest is gonna be the main thing." Sam stood up. "You're looking kinda swollen, so I'll go get you some ice. Might be a good idea to take some ibuprofen after you eat, too."

"Wait - if you're up, I might as well make you breakfast." Dean made to get up, but Sam put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Honestly, he'd been hoping he would, and he was relieved. He'd already been tensing up in anticipation of the agony to come.

"Uh uh," Sam said, shaking his head. "You better just take it easy today. Only get up when, y'know, nature calls." He moved to leave the room. "I'll get something to eat in town. Pick you up some Tiger Balm, too."

Dean made a face at that. Sam swore by the stuff, used it on the pulled muscles and sprains and things he occasionally picked up during hunts, but Dean didn't like it. The smell, the consistency, or the feeling it produced. "I don't want any."

"I'm buying you a jar anyway, 'cause it really will help," Sam replied. " _Don't_ move. I'll be back with ice, then I'll get you anything else you want before I leave."

Dean must've dozed off after that, because when he woke up, there were bags of half-melted ice on his legs (which actually felt awesome; he supposed Sam had known what he was talking about) and Sam had already gone and come back. His belly was noticeably puffy as he walked into the room, a pharmacy bag in one hand and a McDonald's one in the other. The sight of the golden arches made Dean's stomach sit up and beg. He set both on Dean's nightstand before taking a jar of Tiger Balm and a bottle of off-brand Advil out of the first one.

"Are you trying to get me to forfeit by eating McDonald's?" Dean asked.

"I eat McDonald's sometimes," Sam replied. "Plus, it's an egg McMuffin and hotcakes. Only about three hundred calories each." He turned and walked out again. "I got you coffee, too."

"It'd better be black," Dean called after him, then twisted at the waist to grab the McDonald's bag. He unrolled it where Sam had folded it down at the top to keep the heat in, then reached in to pull out the McMuffin. He unwrapped it and took a bite, and it was good. Warm, at least.

The rest of the day was...well, it went pretty great, despite the crippling pain that gripped Dean's lower legs whenever the ibuprofen wore off or he had to hobble to the bathroom. Which happened frequently, since Sam insisted he drink what felt like forty gallons of water to flush out the toxins from the torn muscles or whatever. He stayed nearby in case Dean's glass ran dry or he needed anything else, occasionally reading at Dean's desk or sitting on the bed with him. They watched TV on and off, talked some. It was nice, casual, and Dean savored it 'cause it'd been forever since he'd been able to spend time with Sam like this.

He didn't even mind his snacks. Since the bet'd kicked off, Sam seemed to have developed a need to be constantly munching on something. Potato chips, beef jerky, Oreos. A lot of Dean's favorite foods, in other words. It was tempting as hell when Sam was sitting next to him with a bowl of one of those in his lap, but the pleasure of his company outweighed the annoyance.

"So did you Google all this, or what?" Dean asked late in the afternoon. Sam was sitting down near the end of his bed, one of his legs in his lap as he massaged Tiger Balm into it. Dean had to admit that it was making it feel better, and it had the added benefit of making sure he didn't have any stress fractures. Sam'd told him to let him know if it hurt more when he pressed on any particular area.

"Nah," Sam replied, reaching into the jar - sitting next to him on Dean's bedspread - to break off another waxy chip of the balm. "I did track in college for a while, until my homework load got too heavy."

Dean blinked. He hadn't known that, which wasn't too surprising. Sam didn't seem to like talking about the four years he'd spent at Stanford. Maybe because it was painful for them both. "You did?" He thought about it, then agreed, "Yeah, I could see that."

"Yeah. It was fun," Sam said, his tone forcedly casual. "We ran out in town, and there were some hilly parts. Y'know, San Francisco Bay area and all. And running downhill is one of the other things that causes this." He tapped Dean's shin, but gently enough that it didn't hurt. "I got it pretty bad about halfway through my first semester."

"Jesus," Dean said. "Did you have anybody around to help you?" He had no idea what he would've done if he'd been on his own. He wouldn't've even known what was wrong with him, much less been able to treat it. Hell, he could barely get up to use the bathroom on his own right now.

"I had roommates, of course," Sam replied. "I lived in the dorms, in a pod with five other guys. They did help me out, but they were kinda dicks about it. All except Brady. He was great; guess that was before he got possessed." Sam looked away, frowning down at Dean's leg. "You've got a _lot_ of freckles."

Dean studied him for a second, then nudged his belly with his foot, even though it kind of hurt to do so. His stomach felt almost impossibly soft and full - in terms of spread, not content - against Dean's toes, under his T-shirt, and doing that had the desired effect: Sam looked at him.

"Hey," Dean said. "You know what always makes me feel better?"

Sam shook his head. "Please don't say - "

"Pie," Dean interrupted him, maybe enjoying himself just a little too much. "It's pie. Go get yourself a slice of pie." They should have some in the kitchen, and if they didn't, Sam could just go back into town. It wasn't like it was a long drive.

Sam rolled his eyes and groaned, but his funk did seem to have lifted somewhat. "I mean...I guess I could go for that right now." He gently moved Dean's leg off his lap and back onto the pillows they were using to keep them elevated, then slid off the bed and stood up. "I'll be back."

"I'll be here," Dean replied, lifting his hands and lacing his fingers together behind his head.


	8. Chapter 8

"Okay. Tell me your secret."

Dean glanced up at Sam, upside down from his vantage point. He was in a T-shirt and jeans, his long hair damp and shiny from a recent shower, and seeing as Dean was pretty sure those jeans were still buttoned, he must not have eaten breakfast yet. He'd been on his own for meals for about a week now. Dean had healed to the point where he could walk around without wanting to saw his own legs off at the knee, but standing in one place for too long (like at the stove) could bring all the unpleasantness roaring right back.

With a grunt, Dean lowered the barbell he'd been using back into whatever its little holders were called, then slid out from underneath it and sat up on the bench. His shirt was sticking to him, but thankfully almost all of his acne had cleared up by this point, thanks to a body wash with salicylic acid in it. Massaging his tired biceps, he twisted at the waist in order to squint at Sam. "Which one?"

"C'mon, dude. Don't play dumb. The one that's got to do with your, uh, lifestyle." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "You must be working out somehow without me noticing."

"Uh, no, nothing besides hunting," Dean replied. "And sometimes training with you when I feel like I'm a little rusty on something." He cocked his head to the side. "Haven't we been over this?"

"There is no way," Sam said firmly, unfolding his arms and putting his hands on the bar of Dean's weight, "that you eat the way you do and look like _that_ with no consistent exercise." He lifted one hand to gesture at Dean's entire body.

"I've got a fast metabolism," Dean replied. A school nurse had told him that during a routine physical when he was around fourteen, and he'd always liked the way it sounded. "Good genes."

"Nobody's metabolism's that fast," Sam argued. "Especially not at thirty-eight."

"Yeah? And you know that...how?" Dean arched a brow.

"Because we've got the same genes, and my metabolism's gotta be faster than yours," Sam said. "Not only am I younger, I'm also way more active. And I've _still_ gained weight eating like you do."

Dean hesitated before responding to that, remembering the softness he'd felt above Sam's hips a couple weeks ago. And every time he'd rubbed his belly since then. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed to be growing. He'd long since learned not to trust his own perceptions all the time, though, especially where Sam was concerned, so he dismissed it.

"No, you haven't," he said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I _have_ ," Sam said, so adamantly that Dean couldn't bring himself to accuse him of exaggerating.

"So, like...a lot?" he asked. He wanted to know if he should be concerned.

"It feels like a lot to me," Sam replied, leaning on the weight. "But I'm not really sure how much. The stupid scale's on the fritz again."

Dean almost told him that he'd take a look at it when he had the time, but fixing things that broke, much like the majority of the cleaning, was one of Sam's new duties. That'd backfired on both of them. Sam might've been more educated than Dean, but he wasn't anywhere near as good with his hands, so all of the small appliances that'd crapped out in the last month had stayed crapped out. Either that, or been fixed very poorly.

Sam liked duct tape. And Dean had nothing against duct tape, but he was pretty sure that, when you used it to fix a coffeemaker, you should still be able to see the buttons. He couldn't wait for six weeks to be up just so he could finally go around and undo all of Sam's damage.

"If you can't even weigh yourself, how d'you know you gained weight?" Dean asked.

In answer, Sam lifted his shirt, much like he had weeks earlier to show Dean how full he was. Right now, though, he was empty, and the changes were definitely evident. Dean admittedly silently to himself that he could see how Sam would be able to tell he'd put on a few. All he'd have to do was look in a mirror. Or run his hands over his torso in the shower, which was probably what'd happened.

His abs were gone. He hadn't had a perfect six-pack since he was soulless, when he could spent all night doing crunches (from the way he'd looked, Dean had assumed that was how he'd filled the void normally occupied by sleep). But his stomach had at least been flat, with more than the suggestion of muscles. They were covered up by now, though, by a soft-looking, gentle swell. His belly button had deepened, and the whole thing jutted out slightly past the waistband of his jeans. There was no denying that the softness Dean had been feeling near his hips had blossomed into fully-fledged love handles, either. They were small, but well-formed.

It definitely wasn't a pot belly or anything. But Sam was right: it was a lot for him.

"Oh," Dean said. "Right. I see." And now he was getting hard. Dammit; that was blood his muscles needed for working out. Probably.

"If you think that's bad, you should see my ass," Sam replied, pulling his shirt back down and smoothing the hem out.

Dean studied Sam for a long few seconds before finally asking, "One to ten. Hypothetically, how mad would you get about me asking if that was actually an invitation to look at it?"

Sam snorted, and didn't answer the question. "I _jiggle_. D'you have any idea how long it's been since I jiggled?"

"No," Dean answered honestly. Up until this point in his life, he hadn't paid any more attention than normal to Sam's belly or how much he weighed.

"Neither do I." Sam folded his arms again. "So spill. How d'you keep this from happening to you?" His expression changed suddenly, morphing from slight annoyance into intense concern. "You don't - are you bulimic?"

"No!" Dean said immediately, shaking his head. "Of course not. I'm sorry, Sam, but there's no secret. I'm not sure why or how, but it just _doesn't_. Happen to me, I mean."

"That's impossible," Sam said in his "stubborn jackass" voice. Dean hadn't heard that one in a while.

"Y'know, you have actually been eating more than I usually would," Dean pointed out, which earned him a scowl from Sam. "That might explain it. And the bloating."

"I haven't been eating more than you, though," Sam said.

"How 'bout at the buffet?"

"That was one time."

"Okay. Fine." Dean held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "You're eating the same as me. But I never gained weight, so...is this proof you can't handle it?" He widened his eyes and looked pointedly at Sam's hair.

"Hey," Sam warned, unfolding one arm and stabbing an index finger at him. "Watch it. I could've played that card when you got shin splints, but I didn't. The Impala's still black, but that can change."

Dean grunted in response, because Sam did have a point. Then he asked, "So porking out's not gonna make you welch?"

"Of course not," Sam replied. "I'll lose it like _that_ once all this is over, anyway." He snapped his fingers on "that."

"Okay," Dean said, not wholly convinced but relieved, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, that Sam wasn't going to call it quits. He definitely didn't want to shave off his hair, but there was more to it than that.

He shifted, uncomfortable. He was only at half-mast, but if it didn't go away while he finished exercising, he'd have to take care of it in the shower. At least the sweatpants he was wearing were nice and loose.

"You should go get something to eat," Dean said, laying back down. He still had a few more reps to go. "I never skip breakfast."

"Okay." Sam must've finally decided to believe Dean about not having some magic weight loss secret, because he turned to go. Dean heard him pause as he wrapped his hands around the bar, though, and suppressed a groan. "I don't suppose you've dropped any weight?"

"If I have, I haven't noticed," Dean replied. He knew his own body pretty well, but it wasn't like he spent hours standing naked in front of a mirror. "And you said the scale's busted, so no point in checking." It'd be especially pointless because he had no idea how much he'd weighed beforehand.

"Okay..." Judging from the tone of his voice, Sam still had at least one more question. "No other changes at all?"

"You mean besides the fact that my legs are still killing me?" Dean asked. "I can't think of any off the top of my head. Sorry, Sammy."

"I shouldn't've...accused you of lying to me," Sam said, awkwardly. "Wanna watch a movie or something later on?"

"Sure, if I get to eat popcorn," Dean replied, then let go of the bar and twisted his head until he could see Sam. Or his upper half, at least. If he was going to be mature and own up, then Dean should probably make an effort, too. "I shouldn't've acted like I was gonna disqualify you. 'Specially not after you were so great to me during the whole shin splints thing."

Sam smiled, then left. Dean once again took hold of the bar, and as he sucked in a deep breath and lifted, he gave some more thought to whether or not he really hadn't noticed any changes in his body besides the pain in his lower legs He'd definitely been popping quite a few more stiffies than normal lately, but he suspected that that had more to do with Sam than him.

He supposed that, if he really focused on it, he'd been sleeping better. It was easier to drift off at night and to get up in the morning, even at the ungodly hour Sam had decided he should go running (not that he did that anymore). He had more energy; digging up the grave on their last hunt had been easier than normal, and he hadn't felt like he was running out of steam until they'd almost hit the coffin. And...maybe he was happier, too, but again, that might have to do with Sam. Their relationship was better now than it'd been in months, and Dean was counting the ones both before and after their breakup, here.

All in all, it wasn't that great of a payoff for the torture that Sam'd been putting himself through every single day for years, Dean reflected as he sweated and strained under the barbell. And he was still hungry all the damn time.


	9. Chapter 9

They'd given a lot of discussion to what they were going to do on the very last day of their bet. Just continue with business as usual? Call it off early? Do something together that satisfied both of their terms? As the big day approached, they finally decided to issue a challenge to each other, even though neither one of them really wanted to trip the other up anymore. At least, Dean knew he'd stopped wanting to do that to Sam, and judging by how simple Sam's challenge for him was, he felt the same way.

All Dean had to do was his usual two hundred push-ups, but with a basic twist: Sam would be sitting on his back the whole time. No biggie. Despite Sam's paranoia over his minuscule amount of flab, he really didn't weigh that much, an they'd actually used to do this all the time when they were kids. Like, eight and twelve. Dean had had to do the push-ups anyway because of the training regimen that Dad'd cooked up for him, and Sam had never gotten tired of going up and down on him. Which, looking back now, maybe should've been an early clue about how they were going to turn out.

For his part, Dean planned on presenting Sam with a feast. Not because he thought he'd have trouble with it, but because he honestly expected him to enjoy it. Since Dean exercised in the early morning, though, they were going to do his thing first.

To begin with, he just laid down on his stomach on the rubber mats in the bunker's gym, so Sam could climb on. He'd planned on getting into the push-up position once he was situated. But as Sam lowered himself onto him, folding his legs, the air was forced out of Dean's lungs in a loud wheeze that sounded a lot like a goose honking.

"What's the matter?" Sam asked, worried.

"You're fucking _heavy_ ," Dean replied, after sucking in a difficult breath.

"Well, yeah - I'm just a little bit bigger than I was in third grade," Sam said. Without being able to see his face, Dean couldn't tell if he was offended or not.

"Just how much weight d'you s'pose you've gained?" Dean grunted, flexing his feet to get his toes under him (for the first time in a while, it actually didn't hurt to do that) and planting his hands, palms flat, against the ground.

"Not that much." Now Sam was definitely offended, no doubt. "And most of what you're feeling right now is gonna be muscle. Which is way heavier than fat." He shifted, and something bony pressed hard on Dean's kidney. He gritted his teeth. "Now. Are you gonna stop bitching and get this over with, or do I have to call the body shop in town to make sure they've got enough millennial pink to completely cover your baby?"

"Y'know all the times you've died?" Dean ground out, as he slowly, painfully lifted both himself and Sam off the floor. "I'm really starting to wish I just would've left well enough alone."

Normally, Dean didn't really have a problem with push-ups, even as many as Sam did every morning. Upper body strength had, thankfully, never been one of his problem areas. With two hundred extra pounds on his back, though, the story was a little different.

Probably the hardest part was keeping his body straight. Sam, the bastard, had decided to plop himself down right in the small of Dean's back, so of course he wanted to bow in the middle. Doing that would ruin the push-ups and defeat the whole point of doing this, though (not to mention probably break his back), so he clenched his core as tightly as he could the whole time. It worked, but it was like planks and push-ups combined. Plus, there was still the added weight. He could feel veins popping out on his biceps every time he went up, and his elbows shook as he lowered himself. Them, technically.

Things were made even harder - quite literally - by how aware he was of Sam's ass against his body. Whatever the bony thing was, it had nothing to do with it. Round...and padded, far more so than it'd been the last time he'd had it this close to him. It actually felt like his jeans, usually so loose, might be getting a little too tight on him, and just thinking about that as Dean did push-up after push-up was enough to wake up Junior. Between his arms and his stomach, he wouldn't've thought he had enough blood to fill out all seven-and-a-half inches, but that clearly wasn't the case. The raging hard-on was yet another discomfort, but at least it gave him more incentive not to let the middle of his body go loose. He didn't want his cock bumping into the floor every time he went down.

Dean was ready to quit by fifty. By a hundred, it felt like his head was going to pop, and his face was burning from exertion. Sweat dripped off him, pooling on the mat and making it difficult to keep his hands firmly planted. By one-fifty, he was about ninety-five percent convinced that every muscle in his body was being slowly replaced by a strand of wet spaghetti, and as he neared two hundred, blackness flickered around the edges of his throbbing vision. It'd been a long time since he'd pushed himself this hard.

Sam offered constant encouragement, and Dean went back and forth on whether that was appreciated or annoying. He started telling him he could do it around forty, when he must've finally gotten over his wounded pride. At the hundred mark, he reminded him he was halfway. After that, he basically just got more surprised and impressed as the numbers steadily went higher.

"I really didn't think you were gonna be able to do this," he admitted when Dean was at one-seventy-five. "I think you might've actually gotten stronger, following my routine for six weeks."

So he hadn't thought Dean could do this, which meant he'd still been angling to slap that ugly pink all over Baby even today. The bet wasn't over yet and those were the terms, but Dean couldn't help feeling betrayed anyway. He would've tried to come up with a way to get back at Sam, but right now, his brain was full of the screams of pain and fatigue coming from all over his body.

When he counted one-ninety-six, Sam announced, "And that's two hundred! Wow, Dean, you should be really - "

"No - it - is - not," Dean grunted in time with his own movements, fully aware what Sam was up to. Then, even though it seemed impossible, he forced his body through four more push-ups. It felt like the energy for them was wrung out of his soul itself.

When he was finished, he collapsed. Sam coming down on top of him knocked the wind out of him again, but that was a single star in a galaxy of pain. It all hurt: his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his neck, his back, his legs, his feet, and especially his boner, which he'd fallen directly on. He blinked rapidly to try to clear his eyes of tears, not sure what was causing the waterworks - the pain, or the sheer relief of finally being done.

Sam climbed off of him, providing a little more relief, then got to his feet. Dean got the feeling he stood there staring down at him for a while. Eventually, he said, "You must've screwed up your count somewhere, 'cause...you realize you did two hundred and _four_ , right?"

"Sure I did."

When Sam replied, his frustration came through in his voice. "Y'know, you really need to start trusting me. I feel like that's a big part of the reason we - " He cut himself off, paused. "Whatever. I'm gonna assume you need help getting up."

"Nope," Dean replied. Talking took a lot of effort, and not just because his jaw was pressed into the mat. "Probably easier for everybody if you just let me die here."

Sam snorted, and Dean pictured him shaking his head.

"I'm really sorry you feel so bad," he stated, and he did sound sincere. "But in my defense, I honestly didn't expect you to be able to do two hundred push-ups with me on your back. Or to want to."

"You're always underestimating me," Dean said. "That's another big part of the reason we..." He purposely trailed off, just like Sam had.

Sam didn't respond to that. Just stepped over Dean so he was straddling him. For one terrifying second, Dean thought he was going to sit on him again, but he just leaned down and put a hand on either side of his ribcage. Then he lifted him. It was awkward and painful, but at least it ended with Dean on his feet. Albeit leaning heavily against Sam.

"You're gonna need to drink a lot of water again today," Sam advised as he helped Dean towards the showers. "It'll affect how you feel tomorrow."

"Uh huh," Dean grunted, aware that he probably wasn't going to be able to move tomorrow no matter what he did today. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd first switched lifestyles with Sam. "Do I have to do everything else, too?"

"Not unless you want to, which I'm guessing you don't." Sam let go of Dean, who lowered himself onto the nearest bench as Sam moved forward to turn on the water. The shower area was essentially a locker room, so there were a lot of benches, blonde wood worn smooth by water and time. "If I do something that totally destroys me on a hunt or just in general, I take the rest of the day off, and I don't feel bad about it."

"That surprises me." Dean began to pull his shirt off, which was made difficult by the state his arms were in. He wasn't so much in pain right now as his whole body felt ridiculously weak. "I thought you took every opportunity you could to beat yourself up."

Sam snorted softly, then left the heavy spray of water alone to heat up. He crossed the tiles in order to help Dean with his shirt. Dean pried his shoes off with the toes of his aching feet, then moved onto his sweatpants. He assumed that the fact that Sam was still here meant he was comfortable with nudity. At least practically crushing his erection had made it go away, so he didn't have to be self-conscious about that.

"Just stand under there for a while," Sam instructed after helping Dean into the shower. The water was just barely on the warm side of room temperature, but that wasn't unwelcome. He was still burning up, not to mention covered with sweat. "Or sit, if you feel like you need to. I'm gonna go grab you something to eat and drink."

"That'll help?" Dean asked, closing his eyes and tipping his face up towards the shower head. He'd defer to Sam's judgement on this, since he seemed to be the expert. And why shouldn't he be? He'd been doing this a hell of a lot longer than Dean had.

"It should, yeah."

"Hey." Sam had moved to leave, but Dean called out to him. "Soon as I'm feeling a little closer to baseline, I'll make you breakfast." It was still early in the morning. Earlier than Sam usually ate, actually. On the one hand, it meant Dean had the whole rest of the day to suffer the consequences of the challenge Sam had given him, but on the other, he had the whole rest of the day to force Sam through his own challenge.

Sam blinked at him, looking worried. "Are you...sure you're up for that?" He must've been able to predict the accusation that sprang immediately to Dean's mind, because he held up a hand to keep him from saying anything. "I'm not trying to chicken out. Not on the very last day. I'm just thinking you might have a hard time standing in the kitchen all day after what you just did...not to mention your legs are still healing." He shrugged. "You don't have to cook. We can do takeout all day."

"Since we moved into the bunker, I've mostly eaten my own cooking," Dean replied. "That doesn't mean you're not gonna be having potato chips and ice cream today, but I'm at least gonna cook your meals."

"Okay...if you really wanna do that, then I guess I can't stop you," Sam said with a shrug. He still looked worried to Dean, but now he seemed resigned, too. "I'll be right back."

As he left, Dean turned his face back up into the spray, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. He swallowed a couple gulps of metallic-tasting water, then took Sam's advice and slowly, shakily sat himself down. The longer he rested and the slower his heartbeat got, the better he felt. By the time Sam returned with a bottle of water and a couple granola bars, Dean had stood up again and turned the left knob further, filling the space with a haze of steam.

"That wasn't so bad," Dean said, stepping out from under the water and taking the towel that Sam offered him. It was easier to move his arms now. He left Sam to turn the water off as he patted himself dry, moving towards the bench. He picked up the water bottle and twisted the cap to break the seal, then took a long, deep pull from it. It definitely tasted better than what'd come out of the shower head.

"Yeah, just wait until tomorrow," Sam said from behind him. The knobs squealed as they returned to their original positions.

"Tomorrow, I'm not gonna be doing this anymore." No longer dripping wet, Dean folded the towel around his waist and sat down on the bench, ripping the foil off one of the granola bars. The tiny chocolate chips in it made him way too happy. He couldn't wait to eat real food again...just as soon as he stuffed Sam so full of it he couldn't lift a finger. "You better go make yourself comfortable. And be careful where you do it, 'cause wherever you're sitting when I bring you breakfast, that's where you'll be spending the rest of the day."

"Sure." Sam didn't sound convinced. He'd regret that. Dean took a bite of the granola bar and watched him wander off, then realized he should've asked him if he could have more for breakfast than this. A second later, he decided to hell with it. Of course he was gonna have more. No way did Sam ever run on nothing but a couple granola bars, and besides. It was the last day.

Dean dumped his sweats in the laundry pile, because he'd just about sweated through them and he wasn't going to put them back on after that. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt in his bedroom, then headed to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal and some toast. He definitely could've eaten more, but he wanted to stay light on his feet while cooking for Sam.

Speaking of Sam, he went ahead and tracked him down before he got started. Not that he was all that hard to find. He was just sitting at the map table, a mug of instant coffee close at hand and his laptop open. He was watching Netflix and had his headphones on, but he slipped them down around his neck and tapped the space bar as Dean approached.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, turning to look at him.

"Good, actually," Dean admitted. "I know tomorrow's gonna suck, and I'm gonna try not to sit down for too long today, but right now, I'm fine." He gestured to Sam's chair, then folded his arms over his chest. "So...here? You sure?"

"I figured that, if I wanna move, you can help me," Sam replied, a little dryly. Dean let it go.

"Okay, whatever. So, I was thinking that - " He paused, the screen of Sam's laptop catching his attention. "Are you watching _Orange is the New Black_?"

"Oh. Uh." Sam glanced at the screen. "Yeah." He looked up at Dean with a shrug. "Next season drops this summer, so I figured now's a good time to catch up."

"Is it good?" For obvious reasons, Dean wasn't all that into staying on top of the latest shows. Sam usually wasn't, either.

"I'm only on, like, the third episode, but yeah. It's not bad so far. Really, uh, raunchy, though."

"So, uh, are there..." Dean let a huge grin settle onto his face, the one he usually brought out for porn, scantily-clad witnesses, and cases rife with innuendo. Sam'd used to trigger it a lot, too. He made a V with the middle and index fingers on each hand, then locked them together.

"Yeah. There are lesbians." Sam looked very unimpressed, which was more or less the reaction Dean had been expecting.

"Sex scenes?" he pressed hopefully.

" _Yeah_ , but..." Sam cleared his throat, then leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, staring flatly up at Dean. "You are a bisexual man. Who's fresh out of a relationship with his brother. Should you _really_ be fetishizing lesbians?"

Dean exhaled loudly through his nose. Even after he'd almost made his arms fall off this morning, Sam still couldn't play along. "It is just _so_ attractive when you're obnoxious."

He left Sam to hoard the lesbians for himself, returning to the kitchen. He opened the only one of the industrial-sized refrigerators that they used. At least Sam had been staying on top of the shopping. He pulled out eggs, bacon, sausage, milk, and butter, laying it all out on the counter. He set frying pans on the stove and got out mixing bowls. Tugging his phone out of his back pocket, he opened his music app, then set it to shuffle through the hundreds of songs he'd downloaded. After plugging it into the speaker he kept in the kitchen and dialing the volume all the way up, he got to work.

Dean liked cooking. He liked the rhythm, the way he could get lost in it, the rare (for him) feeling of actually making something instead of killing or burning it. It was the same feeling he got from working on the car and fixing things around the bunker, and a little bit from running, too, while he'd still been doing that. He assumed Sam had stuff like that, but he didn't know what it was.

He left the kitchen with plates up and down his arms. He'd waited and bused tables at several points during his life, and the muscle memory never really went away. He laid them all out in front of Sam with a flourish: bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, toast. He'd thought about adding potatoes to it all in some form or another, then decided that'd be too much. Especially because Sam would be eating plenty of potatoes later today, in the form of chips.

"Oh, wow," Sam commented, sounding genuinely impressed. He'd moved his computer out of the way when he saw Dean approaching. "You've really outdone yourself."

"Thanks." Dean had sort of expected Sam to be intimidated by the amount of food he'd just put in front of him. Maybe he was just trying not to show it. Maybe he'd gotten used to eating like this over the last six weeks. "Anything else I can get you?"

"Some more coffee would be nice." Sam nudged his empty mug to the edge of the table, and Dean picked it up. When Sam said "coffee," he knew he meant a splash of the black stuff drowned by cream and sugar or creamer or whatever else sweet that was available. That wasn't Dean's usual diet coming into play; he'd always been like that. Dean assumed it had to do with the fact that he'd started drinking coffee when he was still young enough to want marshmallow nachos.

He got Sam's coffee and took it back out to him. When he set it down near his elbow, Sam had started in on the pancakes. With the determined way that he was eating them, it seemed like he had a plan to get through this breakfast in the shortest amount of time possible. He wasn't too preoccupied to mumble out his gratitude for the coffee, though.

Dean went back into the kitchen to clean things up. He threw away empty packaging, wiped down the counters, and put all the dishes Sam wasn't currently eating off in the dishwasher. Normally, he would've left it all for a while, but he didn't want to stop moving and risk his abused muscles locking up. On any other day, he might've just gone to bed and made peace with the fact that he was going to be there for the next sixteen hours or so. Today, though, he had a job to do.

When he came back out of the kitchen, wiping his damp hands on the thighs of his jeans, he was surprised to see that Sam was nearly finished with breakfast. He only had a couple sausage links left, and he was alternating between taking bites of those and sipping languidly at his cup of coffee. Unlike breakfast on the first day, he didn't look like he was seconds away from upchucking all over the table. In fact, he actually kind of looked like he was enjoying himself.

"Well, look at you," Dean commented. "You're in it to win it, aren't you?"

Sam grinned up at him, then popped the last sausage link in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before responding. "I didn't spend ten years growing my hair out just for you to shave it all off."

"How're you doing?" Dean asked, angling his head to get a look at Sam's stomach. He shifted to make it easier for him. The shape of his belly was obvious under his shirt, the bottom hem riding up slightly. There was some skin exposed there, and Dean had to concentrate to keep himself from impulsively touching it. He knew it'd be warm, just like it always was. And soft, with the layer of fat that'd swelled up all over his middle. He'd been really trying to keep his hands off Sam unless he specifically asked for contact. That way, it was him initiating it.

"Not too bad," Sam replied. "I mean, I'm definitely full, but it's not like it hurts or anything. My capacity's increased." He drew an absentminded hand down the curve of his stomach, which earned an interested twitch from Dean's cock. That was a little bit of a relief - he must not've broken it when he fell on it earlier.

"I'll say," Dean agreed, then leaned down to start clearing Sam's dishes away. "How 'bout you go take a shower? Then we'll get you set up in your room for a while."

"Okay. That sounds fine." Sam planted a hand on the table and used it to lever himself up, though he didn't seem to be having that hard of a time getting to his feet. But once he was standing, a weird expression plastered itself onto his face and he put a hand on his gut again.

"Did it move?" Dean was familiar with being at least this full.

"Yeah." Sam let out a short laugh, recovering. "It happens all the time, but it just keeps on surprising me. When it...sloshes like that." He dropped his hand and straightened up the rest of the way. Dean started stacking plates. "Hey, I've got a question."

"Shoot," Dean replied, figuring it had something to do with the challenge.

"If I need you to...y'know, rub it for me," Sam began, gesturing to his stomach and looking uncomfortable, "are you gonna count it as a forfeit?"

"Nah," Dean assured him. He didn't even need to think about it before answering. "I mean, you helped me out after I got done with the push-ups, and I definitely needed that. I couldn't stand up. And you didn't count that as a forfeit."

"All right. Good point." Sam seemed relieved. "I'm good for now, but I'm guessing that I'm gonna need it later."

"Ooh, yeah," Dean agreed with a grin. "'Specially if I've got anything to say about it."

Sam smirked back, not looking nearly as intimidated as Dean would've liked him to, then left. Dean took care of his plates, then started getting his room set up for him while he was showering. As he fluffed extra pillows and set bags of chips and candy out on Sam's bedside table, he couldn't help thinking about him in there. Wet, soaped up, naked. Dean had actually enjoyed shower sex with Sam, just because it took so much effort from both of them to get it right. To make sure the lube wound up where it was supposed to, to keep one of them from freezing his balls off, to not wind up on the floor with a backful of bruises and a dislocated shoulder. It was complicated as hell, but that was why it felt so damn _good_ when they nailed it.

He wasn't actually thinking about that at the moment, though. As he counted cartons of ice cream in the freezer and very briefly considered putting a minifridge in Sam's room (or, hell, his own, for that matter), his thoughts were more on Sam's body than what he could be doing to it.

His belly was fixed in Dean's mind. The curve and heft of it. Soft with fat (granted, not a whole lot of it) from six weeks of copying Dean, and swollen with food from the breakfast he'd served him. He'd seen more than enough of his stomach recently to be able to picture it pretty accurately.

And then there was his ass, which Dean had been very fond of way before any of this had ever even started. Admittedly, he hadn't gotten a good look at it in months. But Sam had as good as said that he'd gained weight there, too, and Dean had felt almost all of it for himself against his back while he was doing push-ups. He had enough information to come up with a decent image. It fit in well with the rest of his mental model of Sam.

Dean swallowed and palmed his crotch, adjusting the swelling there to try and make it less noticeable (falling on his dick hadn't broken it, at least). Sam'd already made it clear that he wasn't bothered at all by Dean's private standing at attention around him, but it was embarrassing for Dean himself. Made him feel like a hypocrite. They'd both done a lot of talking during the breakup, and Dean personally had a ton of things he would've liked to take back but didn't know how to.

"Whoa," Sam remarked when he finally returned to his room, where Dean had been sitting on the foot of his bed for the past couple minutes, scrolling through shows on Sam's Netflix account to kill time. He would've been flipping through the channels, but of course they didn't get cable here. "You've been busy."

"What d'you think?" Dean asked, glancing up at him and tossing the remote to the side.

"It definitely looks comfortable." Sam must not have taken a change of clothes with him to the bathroom, because he wasn't wearing anything but a towel. His belly was on full display, and Dean looked away as he approached his chest of drawers. He heard the towel hit the floor, then fabric flapped as Sam picked it up and folded it. "If your plan's to keep me in here for the rest of the day, I don't think I'm gonna complain."

"Yeah, I tried to set you up real nice," Dean replied. He retrieved the remote and put it on Sam's bedside table, in the little bit of space that wasn't covered by all the junk. "And before you ask, I've got no idea how many calories I'm gonna be pouring into you today. Guess you could add it all up if you get bored at any point."

"Today's the last day. I really don't care that much," Sam said. Dean heard him padding up behind him and moved out of his way, watching him climb onto his bed. He'd pulled on a T-shirt, a flannel, socks, and jeans. Dean was a little surprised by the jeans - didn't seem like that'd be very comfy - but it was Sam's choice. "Okay." He settled down against the pile of pillows, crossing his ankles. "I'm ready."

"All right, then." Dean scanned the food he'd put on the nightstand, grabbing a bag at random. "So...shall we start with the mini Butterfingers?"

So the Butterfingers, sour cream and onion potato chips, cherry cola. Dean had figured out the value of sweet-then-salty early on, and of course you always had to have something to drink. He stepped out of his boots and settled down on the bed next to Sam, who'd decided on a show and was focused on it. He was leaning forward, eyes on the TV, bag in his lap as he munched away. Dean allowed himself to relax for the moment, though he kept a figurative eye out for muscle stiffness. He looked at the TV and thought about what to do for lunch, chewing absentmindedly at his thumbnail.

"The whiny blonde and the sexy librarian type," Dean said. "They hate each other?"

"Exes," Sam replied, swallowing a mouthful. "Shut up and watch. You'll figure it out."

Red Vines, Mountain Dew. A couple hours had passed. Sam groaned and laid back against his pillows again, shifting, putting his belly out there. Dean looked over at him, watching as he put both hands on top of his stomach. He rubbed slightly, then moved his hands down to undo the button of his jeans. Dean had actually been thinking about doing that for him, having noticed the way his denim waistband was squeezing him. But he didn't want to touch him without permission. He didn't even think Sam would mind, but he felt weird about it anyway. There were so many rules, about brothers and boyfriends and breakups, some unspoken, a lot he'd made up himself. It was hard to know which ones were important to follow.

His erection hadn't ever gone away, either. Thinking about Sam in the shower had brought it up, and watching him eat - expand - had kept it there. If Sam'd noticed, he hadn't said anything.

"You okay?" Dean asked. Sam grunted. It was a while before he responded properly.

"I just feel..." He stretched, then clapped a hand to his mouth. For a second, Dean had no idea what he was doing, but then he realized that he was trying to muffle a burp. "God, I'm _so_ full."

"Well, that is kinda the whole point of this," Dean pointed out. "You know we're only halfway through the day, right? Or not even, really. Wanna call it quits?" God, he hoped not, as he looked at the fall of Sam's hair over one of the pillows. He must've washed it in the shower, used conditioner, because it was looking as full and lush as...well, as the middle of him, albeit in a very different way. Honey-brown with sun at the wavy ends, coffee-black at the roots.

Sam's hair was probably his best feature, out of a whole six-course meal of really good features. Had Dean ever told him that, even while they were sleeping together? He couldn't remember.

"Uh, definitely not," Sam answered, rolling his head to the side in order to look at Dean. "Although I'm really regretting not making you do more than just the push-ups this morning."

"No takebacks," Dean said immediately as his shoulders twinged. They really should've had somebody judge this thing for them. Too bad Cas was...wherever the hell he was right now. "Too late."

Sam stuck out his tongue at him. Dean laughed and didn't feel bad about it, because the gesture'd been more playful than resentful. He looked at the dome of Sam's stomach yet again and finally took the plunge, reaching for it and laying a hand on the side. He pushed the heel in as he started rolling his wrist, and was surprised by how squishy it was. Even through the fabric of Sam's T-shirt, he could tell he wasn't packed.

"That help at all?" he asked, relieved that Sam hadn't told him to quit.

"I guess," Sam replied, making a face. He folded an arm behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, then groped for the remote with his other hand and paused the playback. "I feel like it's not really bad enough for that yet, but it definitely can't hurt."

"Want a Twinkie?" Disappointed, Dean pulled his hand back. Sam favored him with a smirk.

"That's not really my decision, is it?"

Twinkies, then, and Bugles, and beer. Maybe it was kind of early to be drinking, seeing as it wasn't even noon yet, but that'd never stopped either of them before. Dean couldn't help watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he ate, even once he'd started the show back up. He could practically see him rounding out. Bloating up. It was no wonder that it took less than another hour for Sam to wind up resting against him, back halfway on his chest, and wanting his belly rubbed.

His hair was in Dean's face, and it smelled good. Familiar, of course. He clearly hadn't changed his shampoo in five months, since the last time Dean'd had reason to be this close to him. He vaguely remembered a lecture about how bad it was for your hair to switch your shampoo up all the time, which he'd mostly tuned out. When it came to hair, though, Sam would definitely know.

Dean had his arms around Sam and was massaging his stomach with both hands, moving them in opposing circles on either side. His wrists kept brushing against the small mounds of fat sitting on Sam's hips, his love handles. They felt bigger than they had the last time he'd been anywhere near them. He assumed the fullness of his gut was pushing them out. Hearing the crinkle of cellophane and a sigh from Sam, he asked, "Want me to move your trash can over here?"

"Do you ever do that?" Sam asked, before burping softly.

"Oh, hell, yes," Dean replied. "'Specially if I'm eating, like, Hershey's Kisses or something. Something that makes a lot of trash. I bring the basket right over to the bed. The less you gotta move, the better."

"That sounds appealing right now," Sam admitted. "And I am building up a pretty big pile of garbage over here."

So Dean climbed off the bed, careful of the hard-on that Sam had yet to comment on, and headed over to grab Sam's wastebasket from its pace by his desk. He set it right down next to the bed, and Sam rolled over with his fists full of wrappers and empty bottles, grunting as he shifted his bulk. Dean sat down behind him again as soon as he'd finished throwing everything away.

They wound up in a pretty intimate position. Dean couldn't've recounted how it'd happened even if his life had been on the line, but it'd taken effort from both of them. Sam was practically in his lap, less than half an inch between the curve of Sam's softened ass and the knife-edge of Dean's denim-wrapped erection. His back was fully on Dean's chest now, his legs stretched out in front of him, framed by the V of Dean's own. Looking at that over Sam's shoulder, the lower third or so of his vision taken up by the fluffy hamburger bun of his belly, made Dean realize just how short his legs were compared to Sam's. Not to mention...bandy.

How long had it been since they'd sat like this? Not since they were little, definitely. Not since Sam was still smaller than him.

As he put his hands back on Sam's stomach, Sam made a low noise and dropped his head on Dean's shoulder. He was practically panting into his ear. Just moving that much seemed to have really worn him out.

"God _damn_ ," Dean commented before he could think better of it. "You're not gonna be able to lift a finger by the time I'm done with you, are you?"

"You said I was gonna be stuck in one place for the rest of the day," Sam replied in a murmur. "Your basic thing is you want me eating constantly, right? Hand me another beer. And that Toblerone bar I saw over there."

Dean did that, then went back to rubbing. Sam's belly made noises under his palms that he felt more than heard, and to him, they came across as contented, if not happy. It liked being fed. It ought to, after six weeks of this treatment.

Lunch rolled around. Dean decided to get pizza instead of cooking; he'd save that for dinner. Thankfully, giving Sam a continuous massage seemed to have been enough to keep his arms from getting too stiff. He couldn't exactly have a delivery guy come to the bunker, so he went into town to get the pizza. He topped up Sam's stash before he left. More soda, more chips, more candy. He didn't tell him to eat it all before he got back, because he didn't think he could. But when he walked back into Sam's room with a stack of pizza boxes about forty-five minutes later, his nightstand was bare, there were a lot more wrappers in the wastebasket, and Sam was laid out on his bed, his stomach definitely, noticeably bigger. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Dean. His surprise must've showed on his face, because Sam grinned at him.

"Like you said," he said. "I'm in it to win it."

"You're a bottomless pit," Dean stated, walking in to put the pizza down on Sam's bedside table. He turned to look down at him and, impulsively, brushed his fingertips over the skin of his middle. It wasn't stretched taut, but it wasn't loose by any means. It was warm, near-velvety where he didn't have scars. Dean had actually jerked off in the bathroom before he left, really not wanting to walk into Domino's with a raging erection, but this brought his dick back up so fast he practically heard a cartoon-y "boing!" sound effect.

"I can do this all day," Sam promised. Briefly, he closed his eyes as an expression of discomfort flickered across his face, then he relaxed. He dragged one of his own hands over his belly as he nodded towards the pizzas. "So...I'm guessing none of those has a Spinach and Feta in it? Or a Pacific Veggie?"

Dean smirked at him. "You oughta know better by now." He stepped out of his boots, waked around the bed, and climbed back into his side. It'd been his side back when they'd both slept in this bed, too, he realized with a slight jolt. He looked down at Sam, touched him again. Felt the heat and the pressure. "You doing okay? Not feeling sick or anything, right?"

"Nah," Sam replied. Using his elbows, he hauled himself slowly back up into a sitting position with a grunt, then flopped against his pillows. "Just kinda sleepy. And full." He looked down at himself. His shirt had ridden up to about his belly button, and now he tugged it up the rest of the way. "I never would've guessed I could eat so much."

That was a sentiment that Dean shared a hundred percent, but he didn't say so. He reached over Sam to grab one of the pizza boxes as Sam commented, "I definitely missed your hands while you were gone."

Dean swallowed as he put the box down between them and popped the top open. "Well, I'm back now," he pointed out, not making eye contact or even looking at Sam's face.

They ate lunch, drank soda, and Dean went back to rubbing Sam's belly as he gorged himself on pizza and Coke. He felt like he was coaxing him to eat more. Sam directed him to rub the way that he needed him to, until Dean was actually kneeling on the bed next to him, hands closed into loose fists as he kneaded gently at his swollen gut like it was bread dough. He felt so much like a cat that he wanted to sneeze.

Sam napped through most of the afternoon, which was probably for the best. He woke up every couple of hours for a beer or a pint of ice cream, but for the most part he slept. Pretty deeply, too, going by the way his eyeballs flickered behind his lids. Dean stayed close, breathing in the scent of him, moving his hand slowly and languidly enough on his stomach not to disturb his sleep. He was worried he'd be creeped out or pissed off by him laying next to him while he slept, but he always seemed happy to see him whenever he came to.

Dean hadn't had a day this good since the one when his shin splints had first flared up. Actually, it reminded him a lot of that, seeing as he and Sam were on a bed together, watching a lot of TV, not moving much. And there was that element of physical intimacy, too: just like Sam had rubbed his legs on that day, Dean was rubbing Sam's belly now.

Around six, Sam woke up for good, heading into his bathroom to wake himself up. His stomach had deflated to around half the size it'd been after lunch, and gone soft. He still didn't have a snowball's chance of getting his jeans buttoned, though.

"What's for dinner?" Sam asked as he returned to his room, face fresh and eyes clear.

"We're gonna be doing a lotta cheese," Dean replied. He was sitting on the edge of the bed to put his boots on. One of his shoulders - the one he'd been laying on and not moving - had stiffened, so he was swinging his arm around to loosen it up. "Cheeseburgers, cheesecake."

"No pie?" Sam asked, sounding surprised.

"Well, first of all, I'd answer that cheesecake actually is a pie," Dean answered. "It's got a crust and filling. And second of all, yeah, there's gonna be pie, too."

Sam pulled his shirt down and successfully covered his belly with it. Dean, done with his boots and feeling more confident about his arm, made to stand up, but Sam stopped him by sitting down next to him on the bed. Dean looked at him. Sam's long hair was tucked behind his ears, but he was still somehow hiding behind it, which he did a lot. He wasn't quite making eye contact with Dean; he seemed nervous. Dean was suddenly hit by the memory of that kiss in the motel a few weeks ago, raw and visceral. He wanted Sam's mouth. Months back, he wouldn't've thought twice about kissing him, in the bunker, in his room. But it went without saying that things were different now.

Sam opened his mouth, drawing in a quite breath. It was obvious that he wanted to say something. Dean leaned in a little so he'd be able to hear him.

"Yeah?" he prompted, softly.

"I...love pie."

Dean's jaw worked. That was not what he'd been expecting him to say.

"Excuse me?"

"I actually like pie," Sam said. It sounded like a confession. "I mean, I know I always say I don't, and I'm grossed out when you eat it, and for a long time, all that was true. But you've been having me eat so much over the past six weeks, and all different kinds from a bunch of different places, and...turns out I don't hate it." He shrugged helplessly. "It's good when you make it. And when there's fruit in it. I guess."

"Uh..." That was definitely surprising, at least. "Good to know. Glad you're finally on the right side of history." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. "Want a milkshake while I'm cooking?"

"Sure." They stood up together. "How're your legs doing?"

"Fine." Dean bounced on his heels. "Not like I've been on my feet all day - I'm okay."


	10. Chapter 10

In their kitchen, Dean made Sam a strawberry milkshake. With their duct tape-wrapped blender. While he drank that, Dean got started on the burgers. Dessert was already in the fridge. He'd bought everything that made it up, but he was regretting that now, after Sam had told him he preferred the pies that he made himself.

"You really shrunk down while you were asleep," Dean commented as he was shaping the patties. He'd shredded a block of cheddar and kneaded it into the ground hamburger, really wanting to emphasize the "cheese" in "cheeseburgers." He'd thought about putting in bacon bits, too, but hadn't, not sure the flavor would come through. The strips that he was gonna lay on top of the patties would have to be enough. "I'm gonna blow you back up."

"You want me fatter?" Sam asked. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him.

"You're not fat."

"I feel fat." Sam sucked on the straw in his milkshake, slouched against the counter he was leaning on. It pushed his belly out. "I feel _huge_."

Dean threw the patties into the frying pan he'd had heating up on the stove, since they didn't have a grill. They sizzled as soon as they hit the metal. He swallowed then, suddenly, blurted, "I love running."

"What?" Sam sounded about how Dean had felt when he'd admitted he loved pie out of the blue.

"Running. I love it." Dean planted his hands on the counter, hunching his shoulders and leaning over the frying pan. "It sucked ass at first, but now I get why you do it every day. Or at least as often as you can. I've really kinda missed it since my legs...y'know." He flapped a hand at them. "Still fuckin' hate kale, though, I gotta tell you."

Sam was smiling when he looked at him. "I can't stand chili fries."

Dean shook his head, rummaging in the drawers to find a spatula. He finally came up with one, then used it to flip the patties. "No accounting for taste, I guess."

Nothing too interesting happened for the next hour or so. Dean made four bacon cheeseburgers, kept one for himself (seeing as Sam hadn't said anything about him having pizza and pop for lunch, he assumed his part of the bet was over), and served the other three to Sam. They ate together at the small table in the kitchen proper, each of them chasing their burgers with a couple beers. Dean was embarrassed to admit it, but it wasn't until recently that he'd figured out certain types of beer went better with his favorite foods than others. For what they were eating tonight, he'd broken out something nice and dark.

"Good?" he asked Sam, who seemed to be having trouble with his third and final burger.

"This beer," Sam replied, swallowing a mouthful, "is awesome." He picked up the label-less bottle and squinted at it. "Microbrew?"

"No." Yes, but Dean would give up most of his fingernails before he'd admit it. "I meant the burgers."

"Wellll..." Sam paused, taking another small-ish bite. He appeared to savor it. "Yeah, they're okay. Not my favorite, but they do grow on you if you eat enough of them."

"I'll take the victories where I can get 'em," Dean decided. It wasn't the overwhelmingly enthusiastic answer he'd wanted, but considering how Sam had felt about bacon cheeseburgers prior to this whole thing, it was something. At least he liked pie as much as Dean would prefer for him to.

After dinner, Dean left the dishes piled in the sink to "soak," gathered up everything they'd need for dessert, and led a much-fuller Sam back to his bedroom. Dean's dick was aching, and he felt like he was gonna get boner whiplash. Every time it started softening up, uninterested, something would happen in the next few minutes to make him rock-hard again. He wondered if this was one of those things you were supposed to call a doctor about.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked as Sam settled himself onto his bed again, moving with all the awkward, bulky self-awareness of a pregnant woman.

"Full, but that goes without saying." Sam rested a hand on the side of his round belly. His shirt no longer covered him quite so well. "And I'm jonesing for something sweet."

"You're in luck." Dean set the cheesecake down on Sam's bed, popping the plastic cover off it and reaching for the knife he'd brought along. Sam watched him cut it into eight pieces and lever the first of them onto a plate that already held a fork.

"My bed's gonna be full of crumbs," he commented, accepting the plate as Dean handed it to him. "Should've put a blanket down or something."

"You can sleep in mine." Dean offered it up casually, without thinking, but froze as soon as it was out of his mouth. The happy peace that he and Sam had found lately, especially today, felt like a soap bubble to him, and he was pretty sure that he'd just popped it.

Sam didn't seem offended at all, though. "You're expecting me to be able to move after I'm done with dessert? You need to step up your game."

They watched more TV. Once Sam was done with the first slice of cheesecake, Dean sliced up the pie (apple-cranberry) and gave him a slice of that. He kept a steady stream of rich pastry flowing into his ever-expanding stomach, switching off between cheesecake and pie. Sam asked for milk to drink, and as Dean headed to the kitchen to retrieve that, he had a sudden and near-overwhelming urge to give him half-and-half or even straight cream instead. He just got the milk, though. First of all, he didn't have either of the other things, and second of all, he really didn't want to risk making Sam throw up.

Dean was just surprised over and over again by how much Sam could eat and keep down, though. Maybe it was just because he was a really big guy in general, maybe it was sheer stubbornness on his part, maybe he'd finally learned to enjoy eating. At any rate, he was pretty big and heavy by the time half of both the pie and the cake were gone, grunting with effort every time he had to move himself. Dean had rolled his T-shirt up and started rubbing him again. With Sam slumped against his pillow mountain, basically only sitting up enough so he wouldn't choke while he ate and drank, Dean figured out that it was best for him to lay down next to him. His head was right next to Sam's belly, one arm folded under it and the other stretched out so he could keep a hand on his brother, rubbing up and down in slow circles. The muscles and tendons in his forearms were starting to hurt, like he'd been kneading dough or clay for hours. It wasn't that big a deal, though. What was inside Sam felt silky, almost liquid. There was still a lot of give to him.

Dean could feel the heat of him against his face, smell his skin. He'd known what Sam's skin smelled like for basically as long as he could remember, intimately familiar with all the little variations it could go through. There was a little bit of sweat there, that girly moisturizing body wash he used, with his own unique scent underlying all of it. To Dean, it'd always been something kinda vanilla-y, maybe mixed with pine or...even the way a pine forest smelled right after it rained real heavy in it. Sweet, but still masculine, almost wild. He'd kill for a candle with that smell - or, even better, to be able to bake it into a pie.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, the skin of Sam's belly was pressed against his mouth. He kissed it, softly, then pulled back, trying not to jerk away and draw Sam's attention. Maybe he hadn't even noticed.

Sam definitely didn't say anything, but he did reach down and pull his shirt even further up, softly clearing his throat. And he shifted himself closer to Dean.

Dean licked his lips and swallowed, running his hand along the peak of Sam's middle. Stroking, not rubbing. Then he moved in again, kissing for a second time, then a third. He targeted Sam's moles, and then his scars. He kept his mouth closed at first, but slowly allowed it to drift open, leaving behind patches of wetness as he moved along the side of Sam's gut. Eventually, he used the arm that he had folded under his head to push himself up. His hand slipped down the opposite side of Sam's belly, cupping his love handle so that he was practically cradling the shape of him as he covered the top of his stomach with kisses.

"You know it's not actually your baby in there, right?" For having just cleared his throat, Sam's voice was pretty husky.

"It's a food baby," Dean replied, breath ghosting across Sam's bare skin. "And I made a lot of the food. So, technically, it kinda is my baby."

"You made _some_ of the food in there." Dean felt cold and tingly all over with shock and excitement when Sam touched him, putting a hand on his head. Burying his fingers in his hair. Dean could feel Sam's blunt nails against his scalp. It was almost like he was pushing him down, holding him in place so he could keep worshiping his belly with his mouth.

Dean moved his own hand, the one on Sam's love handle. His forearm brushed a mound of denim, and he shifted to explore it with his fingers. As he palmed the bulge in Sam's jeans, below the larger one of his stomach, the hand on his head tightened and he both heard and felt Sam's breathing speed up.

"Oh," he said. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Shut up," Sam grunted. "Like you haven't been hard for the past six weeks."

Sam's plate was empty, so Dean loaded him up again with another slice. Then he went back to his belly, using his hands and his lips. Every movement and sound inside of Sam echoed through Dean from those points of contact, and as Sam ate, washing every fourth bite or so down with milk, there was more and more of him for Dean to work with. He was pretty steady about it, just trucking along, not faltering until there was only one slice each left of the cheesecake and the pie.

Sam'd taken his hand off Dean's head a while back, so he could hold his fork, but now it returned as he set his empty plate aside with an awkward clatter. Cupping the back of Dean's head, he pulled him up until they were kissing for real, rather than just Dean having a one-sided makeout session with his brother's swollen gut.

This was nothing like the kiss they'd shared back in that motel room, after the buffet. This was hot, wet, hungry. Their mouths were open, and they tasted each other. Dean had held off on having a piece of pie, much as it pained him after six weeks without it, because he wanted it all to end up inside of Sam. And that was okay, because he got as much of the flavor as he could ever want just from kissing Sam.

"That was a hundred percent you," Dean said when they both pulled back, gasping for breath.

"You didn't have to come up here," Sam pointed out.

"Maybe we're both drunk. Definitely had a lot of beer."

"The two of us hold our liquor a lot better than that."

"So...what?" Dean didn't want to talk about it anymore. He felt like the more they scrutinized this, the bigger chance it had of all falling apart. "You done for the night, or...?"

"I'm full," Sam admitted. His hand had slipped from Dean's head down onto the back of his neck. The tip of his thumb ran affectionately up and down one of his tendons where it stood out. "I'm fuller than I've ever been in my entire life; I know that for a fact. And I know we've been joking about it all day, but I literally don't think I can move right now - I'm too heavy." He had to pause in order to burp. "And even if I could, I don't want to."

"You don't have to," Dean was quick to reassure him. He didn't plan on leaving him for the rest of the night unless he was specifically asked to.

"Be honest," Sam said, allowing his hand to drop even further, this time to Dean's elbow. Dean still had a hand on Sam's stomach, and he began gently stroking it. "Have you ever had this happen to you before? Y'know, the...immobility."

"Well," Dean hedged. "I mean, not often. Maybe once or twice a year?" Sam didn't say anything, and Dean could tell he wanted him to elaborate. He sighed. "You know I'm, uh, all about the comfort food. So when things totally go to shit for us, I'll just...eat. Makes me feel better, sometimes. Not the healthiest habit, I know, but it's better than some of my other ones, right?"

"You mean like trashing the bunker?" Sam asked. "Or drinking yourself into a stupor?"

"Anyway." Dean coughed. "I wind up pretty much _trapped_ in my room. 'Bout this big." He patted Sam's belly, very gently. "Like you said, I can't move. I can't hardly even think. I don't wanna do anything but sleep. Food coma."

"When d'you stop eating?" Sam asked. Dean smiled sheepishly.

"When I run outta food and I'm too damn full to go get more."

"Well," Sam began, after burping again, "we are supposed to have switched lifestyles. And that's a part of your lifestyle. So I guess I'm not done until those..." With his free hand, he gestured in the general direction of the pie and the cheesecake. "...are gone." Smiling, he picked up his plate off his nightstand and offered it to Dean. "So to answer your question, no. I'm not done."

Dean assumed Sam knew his limits better than he did, so he took the plate and pulled away from him in order to put the last slice of cheesecake on it. When he brought it back up the bed, though, Sam wouldn't take it, shaking his head.

"I identify _really_ strongly with that one thing you said, about not wanting to do anything but sleep," he said. "I don't even think I can pick up the fork again. You're gonna have to feed me."

Dean's mouth was dry. He swallowed, and spit flooded across his tongue as he picked up the fork and buried its tines in the cheesecake. It was soft, after having been out of the fridge for so long, and made a sticky sound as he speared it.

"You are one kinky son of a bitch, you know that?" he asked quietly.

"That's rich, coming from you," Sam replied, opening his mouth like a baby bird.

So Dean fed him, in his dark bedroom, lit only by the bluish glow of the TV (paused around the time they'd started talking and never turned back on). Some of the melted cheesecake fell off the graham cracker crust onto the plate as Dean lifted the last bite. He scraped that up with his fingers and let Sam suck it off those. His mouth, his tongue, felt exactly like Dean remembered. Warm, moist, and oh-so-talented, hitting the perfect balance of suction and tongue play. Dean's eyelids fluttered. He hadn't touched his cock or Sam's since he'd first noticed Sam was hard, and it was just way too difficult to keep his hand off them now. He managed it, though. There was still a slice of pie left.

Once that was gone, tucked safely inside of Sam's incredibly-overfed belly, Sam had stopped burping and started hiccuping. To Dean, that was a sign that there was no room whatsoever left inside him. After all, burping was getting rid of excess air, and hiccuping was something else entirely.

"Ohhhh, man," Sam said softly, stretching very carefully as Dean got up to throw away all their garbage and move the dirty dishes out of the way. "Oh, god..."

"Regretting those last couple slices?" Dean asked as he got back on the bed, being very careful not to jostle Sam with his movements. Not that that would even be an issue if Sam had a memory foam mattress rather than a spring one.

"On some level," Sam said, eyes closed, "some basic, hedonistic, totally - " A hiccup. " - animal level, this actually feels _good_."

"Oh, yeah." Laying down next to Sam, Dean ruffled his hair. "Definitely. Attaboy."

Sam rolled his head towards Dean's touch. "I feel like a beached whale."

"You look like one." Dean dragged his hand down Sam's chest, feeling the firm, sharp planes of his pectorals through the cotton of his T-shirt before he reached his stomach. "This is just incredible. You're so freaking big - you ate every single thing I put in front of you today. That's nuts." Dean felt along the waistband of Sam's jeans, picking up on how he was practically poured into them. "And you basically do this every day. No wonder you're getting fat."

Sam groaned. "Still don't understand what the difference is between you and me..."

"I still think it's just that you're a way bigger glutton than I am," Dean replied honestly. When Sam made a negative-sounding noise in the back of his throat, he kissed his temple to soothe him. "Yeah, I know, that's not what's going on." Sam's belly felt like a fully-inflated balloon, taut and, if he'd happened to turn on the light, probably shiny. Maybe even red, either with a blush or just from the skin being stretched so tight. "Guess we'll never know why eating like this makes you gain weight and not me."

Sam grunted in response. Dean kept his own face close to his, studying his long eyelashes, the point of his nose, his soft pink mouth. The color was washed out by the TV's light, but Dean knew it was there. He ran his fingertips over the wide expanse of Sam's belly, just barely letting his calluses contact Sam's skin as he traced feathery patterns around his flat navel. He was trying not to hurt him, but it occurred to him that touching him like this might make him itch, so he let a little bit of his hand's weight come down on him.

Sam's breathing was even, except when he hiccuped, and his eyes were closed, but Dean could tell he wasn't asleep by the way he reacted to his touch. The twitches, the muscles relaxing, the very slight shifts towards him. Dean would've turned off the TV, but doing that felt too much like admitting the night was over. Eventually, he asked, "Ready to turn in?"

"Sleep'd be the best thing for me right now, right?" Sam replied, puffing out a soft breath. It smelled sweet, fruity.

"Yeah, that's what you're gonna need to process these calories," Dean agreed, rubbing Sam's stomach to indicate the contents of it. Saying that triggered a pulse of excitement in his groin. After all, processing the calories, especially while he was asleep, meant swelling fat cells. A waist size ticking upwards. Clothes getting tighter.

"I'm not sure I can get to sleep right now, though," Sam said. "I'm..." He trailed off, then put his hand on the one that Dean had running around on his belly. It was easy to forget just how massive Sam's hands were until he literally engulfed Dean's with them. He guided it down to between his legs, and Dean sucked in a breath with understanding. He was still hard, too. Painfully so, felt like.

Dean cupped the shape of Sam's cock, immense inside of his jeans and boxers, even after Sam had taken his own hand away. He squeezed the bulge as he pushed himself up, getting a gasp out of Sam. He moved down, kneeling next to Sam, not quite sucking up the courage to straddle his thighs as he started pulling his jeans off. Sam grabbed his hands again as he did that.

"Wait, wait," he said, breathing heavily. "You can't fuck me."

Something withered in Dean's chest, but he did his best to push ahead and willfully ignore what Sam'd probably meant by that. "Well, _you_ definitely can't fuck _me_ , with this monster in the way." He gestured to Sam's gut, afraid to touch him all of a sudden despite having had his hands on him all day.

"No - I mean..." Sam swallowed and looked away, embarrassment cropping up on his face. "I've been eating all day, literally, and I haven't had a chance to...y'know, prepare. Pretty sure you haven't, either, and no offense, but you weren't ever all that great at it." He focused on Dean again, regaining a little of his confidence as he raised an eyebrow. "So unless you're actually into that all of a sudden..."

"Uh, no," Dean said, having caught Sam's drift. "Definitely not." He never thought he'd be relieved about Sam bringing up the hygiene issues associated with anal sex. He laid a hand on Sam's thigh, comfortable touching him again. "So...what d'you wanna do, then?"

"Have we talked about any of this?" Sam answered. "Up to this point? Let's face it: talking's never been our strong suit. So how 'bout we just...go with it and see what happens?"

"Sure you're comfortable with that?" Dean asked, moving his hand slowly up Sam's thigh. "You always gotta be the man with the plan." Whether they were hunting or making love. Dean was pretty sure he'd always been like that.

"It's been working out for me so far." Sam brought his elbows underneath himself and dug them into the pillows, pushing himself up so he was closer to Dean. Dean took the cue, leaning down to meet him halfway. He kissed him again as his hand made its way back to his dick, rubbing the curve of it through the layers of fabric with his thumb. He was rewarded by a twitch against his palm; he knew what he liked.

It was obviously tough for Sam to move. He couldn't do much more than lay there and let Dean do whatever he wanted to him. As hot as that whole idea was, it also made Dean extremely aware that he was gonna have to be gentle. This was entirely new territory for them, since they'd never fooled around while Dean was this full and definitely never while Sam was. Dean was honestly surprised Sam was up for anything right now, knowing what it felt like to be in this state. Wasn't like he was about to complain, though.

The first thing he did, between kisses that were getting heavier and more frantic, was take off Sam's shirts. Flannel and tee. He dropped them on the floor with one hand as he ran the other, palm flat and fingers spread, across Sam's chest. Maybe he couldn't feel his ribs anymore, but he definitely hadn't gained weight up here like he had around his waist. There were scars, of course - both of them were covered from head to toe in scars, even after receiving two square meters each of brand-new skin when Castiel broke them outta Hell. But there were also the hard, dark beads of Sam's nipples, the patch of thin hair between his pecs, and his anti-possession tattoo, recently re-inked after being burned off. The skin that it was on was still raised.

Sam tugged at Dean's shirt, and he took it off. He slipped two fingers inside the waistband of his jeans right behind the button, pulling at that even as his knuckles dug into Dean's cock. He pulled away rather than getting totally naked just yet, though. He moved his mouth from Sam's down to his nipple, running his tongue over it and picking up the taste of him. Sam's nipples were already erect, but the one Dean was working on seemed to shrivel up even harder when he pulled it into his mouth, sucking on it and just barely letting his teeth run over the pebbled skin. Sam grunted loudly and did something that probably would've been a thrust if his stomach (which Dean had a hand on at the moment, prodding and kneading) hadn't been weighing his hips down.

Sam had sensitive nipples, like the nerves ran straight to his dick and balls, and Dean had always loved that. It was so rare in a guy. He had enough experience to know that.

Dean pulled his mouth off Sam's chest, a string of spit connecting his bottom lip and Sam's nipple until he was far enough away for it to break. He went for Sam's pants, and this time, he let him take them off. His boxers, too. Dean cupped his ass as his cock - every bit as long, thick, and curved as Dean remembered it being - sprang free, squeezing the extra flesh. It spilled through his fingers, each cheek more than a handful now, and that had Dean dripping into his own underwear.

"C'mon," Sam panted, touching Dean's stomach for once. Dean almost reflexively tensed, and was sure that Sam's touching took on an appreciative feel. Maybe he did have a six-pack coming up. "I showed you mine. Show me yours."

Dean supposed that Sam deserved at least that much, seeing as he was the one who'd been making him hard all day, every day. He pulled his socks off as he slid off the bed and came around to Sam's side. He grabbed the remote off the nightstand and turned the TV off, but then switched on the lamp it'd been sitting next to.

"I don't have the patience to bring anything up on my phone right now," Dean said. "So you're just gonna have to imagine the stripper music."

That got a laugh out of Sam, who'd turned his head to the side in order to look at him, as Dean popped the button on his jeans with a flourish. He slowly dragged the zipper down as he began to swing his hips to a rhythm in his head, then cupped the bulge once it was free. He rubbed himself through the fabric of his underwear as he stepped out of his pants. He wasn't all that sure how much interest Sam really had in this kind of show, but right now, at least, he seemed riveted.

Dean had barely gotten his boxers off when Sam put out an arm, planting a hand on the small of his back and pulling him in. When he nuzzled the flushed head of his cock, Dean let out a throaty chuckle. "Damn, are you still hungry?"

"You said I'm a bottomless pit," Sam replied, and then proceeded to suck the precome out of Dean's slit. "Feed me."

With that said, though, Sam only managed to get about half of Dean in his mouth before he gagged a little, making Dean pull back. With how much food had gone into him tonight, he did not want him throwing up.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, licking his lips. "The angle's just awkward."

"I can fix that." Dean returned to the bed, and in a couple of minutes, he had the two of them in a sixty-nine position. It was awkward for him. His knees were on the pillows, so his ass was up in the air and blood was rushing to his head. Getting rid of the pillows wasn't an option, though. Sam was way too full to lay flat right now.

His chest was against Sam's stomach, his arms practically wrapped around it. His chin rested on the underside as he kissed the tip of his brother's erection, then licked it. He waited until Sam had taken him into his mouth again, this time with an enthusiasm that triggered a full-body shudder, to go to town on him.

Dean began bobbing his head, timing it with the automatic thrusts of his hips. His lips, wrapped around Sam's girth, felt stretched to their limit, and Sam's mouth and throat felt tight and slick around his own hardness. He felt something building in the pit of his stomach around the same time that Sam pulsed against his tongue. When that happened, he lifted his head and his hips, taking his mouth off Sam's cock and his cock out of Sam's mouth. Both popped wetly.

"What's the matter?" Sam sounded concerned in the way that usually meant he was trying not to sound annoyed.

"I don't wanna come," Dean replied, "without being able to see your face." It'd just been way too long since that'd happened. He wasn't sure what exactly he had in mind (maybe sitting on Sam's thighs and jerking them off together, using their shared saliva as lube), but as he was crawling down the considerable length of Sam's body, his dick happened to poke his belly, then slide over the top of it. Sam gasped, and Dean turned around to look at him. "That feel good?"

"It's just really...sensitive," Sam replied. Dean sat down next to him, an idea coming together.

"You got any lube in here?" Sam exhaled through his nose and groped for the handle of the one of the drawers in his bedside table, dragging it open. He lifted out a clear bottle and tossed it to Dean, who caught it and popped the top. He immediately squeezed a pile out onto Sam's belly like he was about to give him an ultrasound, and Sam yelped.

"Dude! That's cold!"

"Sorry," Dean replied. Normally, he would've held it in his hand for a while, let it warm up to body temperature. But after almost reaching climax in Sam's mouth and pulling himself away through sheer willpower, he just couldn't wait that long. He put a hand on the lube and started spreading it around as evenly as he could, ignoring the slight tremors that the temperature was sending through Sam. When most of his stomach was nice and slippery, glistening in the light from the lamp, Dean swung a leg over him. He got on all fours, straddling him, and lined his pelvis up over his midsection. "Lemme know if this hurts."

Sam, eyes fixed on Dean and mouth slightly open, nodded his understanding. So Dean dropped himself until his cock was laying on the expanse of Sam's generous belly. Then he began to thrust.

It was weird as all hell, he could definitely admit that. But it also felt good. Not as good as actually being inside of Sam would've felt, but still not bad. Weirdly enough, the closest thing he could compare it to would probably be dryhumping. Or rubbing off against the curve of someone's ass. What vaulted it into some next-level pleasure after Dean's first few strokes, though, was the mental aspect. Just knowing that Sam was so big, so full, that he could literally fuck his belly. He could feel the contents sloshing rapidly against the underside of his dick, and Sam's love handles wobbling with the force of his thrusts. It was awesome.

It must've felt good to Sam, too, because he started making his usual sex noises when Dean began moving. Moans, high-pitched cries. His head tipped backwards, driving into the pillows, both hands came up to clutch his headboard as it began to knock against the wall, and he arched his back, pushing his stomach forcefully against Dean's stiff cock.

"Hurts?" Dean asked, just to make sure it didn't. Like a lot of people, Sam looked roughly the same when he was feeling super good as when he was in agony.

"No - k-keep going," Sam panted between "aah"s and "ooh"s. "Harder."

Dean obeyed him, even though the muscles he'd pushed to the brink during the morning's push-up session were starting to hurt. The pleasure outweighed the pain. His balls, swinging freely, brushed against Sam's cock on every thrust, sending an electric shock of sensation bolting up his spine to the top of his head each time. In his current position, he could bottom out on Sam's dick and still keep humping his fat, stuffed gut. What he'd said earlier about prep still rang true, though.

With what looked like massive effort, Sam peeled one of his hands off the headboard and brought it down to start jerking himself off. Dean's balls started hitting his wrist every once in a while rather than just his cock. Both felt hot and damp.

Before long, Dean felt something building again. This time, he let it happen. He crested that wave with a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting through it as he ducked his head. And...well. He definitely came, that was for sure. There was the rush of euphoria concentrated in his groin, the tingling in his face and the rest of his body. But something felt off. His balls didn't tighten and there wasn't a blurt of come from his cock. Most of all, there was no satisfaction. He was still desperately, painfully horny - he didn't even go soft.

"What the hell?" he mumbled, still pumping away because he didn't know what else to do.

"'S wrong?" Sam gasped.

"Think I just came, but - there wasn't any - _shit_. Sam. _Sammy_!"

It was like coming down a good-sized hill, reaching the bottom, and then realizing that there was a freaking _mountain_ the size of Everest in front of you that you were about to go up. That was how Dean would describe his second orgasm to Sam later, but while it was actually happening, his thoughts weren't anywhere near that coherent. A tsunami of pleasure blanked out his mind, and all he could do was howl and laugh and mindlessly buck his hips. His vision fuzzed like it had when he'd been doing the push-ups, but for an entirely different reason.

He came so hard it made his balls hurt, like somebody was squeezing his sac to milk every possible drop out of him. There was definitely a lot of it; it felt like gallons of semen gushed out of him. Eggshell-colored puddles and ropes covered Sam's stomach and chest, and even though Dean hadn't been aiming for it, he still managed to get a fair amount on the lower half of his face, too. Dean had been spanking the monkey pretty frequently out of necessity, and he'd even come earlier that day, but this made it look like he'd been backed up for months.

Sam must've hit his orgasm around the same time Dean did, because he heard him groaning his name while he was still climaxing himself, and then hot come splattered across his ass and the back of his balls. If anything, that just made his ride wilder.

By the time he came down, Dean was totally flaccid. Thankfully, he'd managed not to sit down on Sam's stomach, but it was a real chore to swing his arm and leg back over and lay down beside him. He was shaking like it was thirty below in the room, and his joints seemed to creak when he moved. Again, it felt a whole lot like the thing with the push-ups, but in a good way.

As he flopped down next to Sam on his pillows, Sam turned his head towards him and they kissed. Long, slow, passionate. Dean tasted himself where he'd painted Sam's bottom lip. He knew they couldn't go to sleep like this; they were a mess. Hell, the whole bed was a mess. Sam had been right about the crumbs, and Dean had gotten water-based lube all over the pillows when he rubbed it around on Sam's belly and didn't wipe his hand off afterwards, and now Sam's thick come was leaking out of his ass crack to dribble onto the duvet. They were both greasy with sweat and spit and sex hormones. There was some serious clean-up needed, and Dean knew he'd probably wind up doing most of it himself, on account of Sam pretty much being anchored in place. For now, though, he let himself just enjoy the moment.

One of his hands had somehow found its way into Sam's hair. He curled his fingers into it and stroked the locks across his palm with his thumb, drowsily reflecting on what a good thing it was that Sam was a closet fatass. Otherwise, he would've had to shave all this off.

When the kiss ended, there were so many things Dean was dying to ask. If they were back together. If this had managed to fix everything that'd gone wrong between them. If Sam loved him even half as much as he loved Sam at that exact moment in time. Instead, though, he whispered against Sam's pointed nose: "Betcha can't do this for another six weeks."

Sam clasped Dean's free hand with one of his own, in something that might've been intended as a handshake but wound up being just a warm, affectionate grasp.

"Watch me."


End file.
